This  Book  is  the  Property  of 
MAY' COMPANY 


No  Membership  Fee 


.imit  on  All  Books 

THIRTY  DAYS 

jf 

Non-Fiction  2c  a  day',5c  MwiTmum 
Fiction  Ic  a  day  3c  Mimrnom 

'  vr  sr * 

tt*r-    j^». 

Books  will  be  reserve«fon  the  pa1 
five  cents  for  Fiction  sfljti*  eight  cef 
Non-Fiction.    This  paym^f  covers  a  notice 
to  you  that  the  book  is  bWI^Jield  for  four 
days  from  sending  daf<3jijd»l'%notice. 


THE  SENSATIONALISTS:   I 
LADY      LI  LITH 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 


BY    STEPHEN    McKENNA 

THE  SENSATIONALISTS 
PART  ONE:  LADY  LILITH 
PARTS  Two  AND  THREE:   In 
Preparation 

SONIA  MARRIED 

SONIA 

MIDAS  AND  SON 

NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE 

THE  SIXTH  SENSE 

SHEILA  INTERVENES 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


LADY  LILITH 

BY 

STEPHEN  McKENNA 


'MIDAS  AND 

SON,"  "SONIA,"  "SONIA  MARRIED," 
"NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE," 

ETC. 


NEW  ^Sr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  I92O, 
BY  GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

AND 

THE  MEMORY 

OF 

MY  FATHER 


2136930 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

T  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHCENIX     .......  9 

II  THE  COMING  OF  LILITH 34 

III  THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN 58 

IV  APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE 79 

V  NOBODY'S  FAULT 107 

VI  THE  SHADOW  LINE 124 

VII  A  MATTER  OF  DUTY 141 

VIII  A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE 161 

IX  THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON    .     ..»..-.  177 

X  VINDICATION 198 

XI  THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE 217 

XII  AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT 230 

XIII  A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION  .....     .    .'    .  257 

XIV  THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE    .......  277 

XV  PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE    .........  294 


LADY    LILITH 


"I  became  the  spendthrift  of  my  own  genius,  and  to  waste  an 
eternal  youth  gave  me  a  curious  joy.  Tired  of  being  on  the 
heights,  I  deliberately  went  to  the  depths  in  the  search  for 
new  sensation  ...  I  grew  careless  of  the  lives  of  others.  I 
took  pleasure  where  it  pleased  me,  and  passed  on.  I  forgot 
that  every  little  action  of  the  common  day  makes  or  unmakes 
character.  .  .  ." 

OSCAR  WILDE:  De  Profundis. 


LADY  LILITH 

CHAPTER  ONE 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX 

"Conceive  of  your  life  as  an  unfinished  biography,  and  try  to 
discover  the  next  chapter  and  the  end." 

J.  A.  SPENDER:    "THE  COMMENTS  OF  BAGSHOT." 

"WITHIN  ten  years  five  of  us  will  be  married  and  five 
will  be  dead,"  cried  O'Rane,  writing  rapidly.  "(Every  one 
of  us  will  have  made  such  a  fool  of  himself  that  it's  wishing 
himself  dead  he'll  be.)  One  will  have  had  to  cut  the  coun- 
try. One  will  have  lost  all  his  money.  As  you  seem  to 
like  jam  with  your  powder,  I've  said  that  one — and  not 
more — will  achieve  fame — by  the  mercy  of  God ;  one — and 
not  more — will  make  great  money." 

The  prophecy,  delivered  with  apparent  sincerity  in  the 
mellow  atmosphere  of  dinner  to  a  score  of  men  between  the 
optimistic  ages  of  twenty  and  twenty-five,  was,  on  the  face 
of  it,  discouraging.  He  who  achieved  fame  and  he  who 
amassed  a  fortune  were  condemned,  with  the  rest,  to  pass 
through  the  contemplation  of  suicide  or,  at  least,  the 
prayerful  expectation  of  death.  And  the  moment  for  the 
forecast  was  undoubtedly  ill-chosen.  Seventeen  of  the 
twenty  members  of  the  Phoenix  had  spent  the  last  week 
wrestling  with  examiners  in  their  final  schools;  O'Rane 
spoke  with  the  subconscious  triumph  of  one  who  was  not 
bidding  farewell  to  Oxford  for  another  year ;  and,  if  a  vote 
had  been  taken,  nine-tenths  of  his  friends  would  have 


10 

accorded  him  the  scant  portion  of  worldly  success  with 
which  Providence  in  his  grudging  prophecy  would  crown 
their  ambitions. 

"Dry  up,  Raney,"  growled  Jack  Waring.  "It's  all  very 
well  for  you " 

"It's  a  twenty-to-one  chance  I'm  giving  you,"  O'Rane 
pointed  out.  "You  might  bring  off  the  double  event.  And 
get  a  wife  thrown  in.  It  would  be  no  fun,  if  we  all  leaped 
to  the  top.  'When  everybody's  somebody,  then  no  one's 
anybody.' " 

Waring  jumped  up  and  turned  to  the  president. 

"I  have  to  report  Mr.  O'Rane  for  singing  at  dinner,  sir. 
A  good,  thumping  fine,  Sinks,"  he  added. 

Jack  Summertown  intercepted  the  ruling. 

"On  a  point  of  order,  sir;  was  that  singing?  If  it  was — 
oh,  my  Lord !" 

Sinclair  rose  majestically  from  the  presidential  chair  and 
turned  his  eyes  from  one  disputant  to  the  other. 

"The  accused  is  acquitted,  but  he's  not  to  do  it  again,"  he 
ruled  diplomatically.  "I  have  to  censure  Lord  Summer- 
town  for  addressing  the  Chair  without  rising." 

Ten  suspended  conversations  were  resumed,  as  he  sat 
down;  and  Waring  reverted  to  his  own  gloomy  thoughts. 
Unaccustomed  to  look  more  than  a  day  ahead,  he  was  only 
beginning  to  recognize  that  in  twenty-four  hours  he  would 
have  gone  down  from  Oxford  for  the  last  time  and  that 
within  four  months  he  would  have  to  begin  reading  for  the 
bar.  He  had  interrupted  his  dressing  an  hour  before  to 
stare  out  of  the  window,  sprawling  on  the  sill  and  dangling 
a  collar  and  tie  with  idle  hand. 

Outside,  the  setting  sun  of  a  late  June  day  filled  the 
Broad  with  sleepy  warmth  and  dyed  the  crumbling  stone 
of  the  Sheldonian  rose-red.  In  the  middle  of  the  road  two 
cabmen  slumbered  on  their  boxes,  pillowing  their  heads  on 
their  arms  and  leaving  their  horses  to  munch  contentedly 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX        n 

from  frayed  nosebags  and  to  twitch  an  ear  or  flick  a  tail  at 
too  persistent  flies.  Rare  groups  of  sight-seers  approached 
the  deserted  gates  of  Trinity  and  Balliol,  sought  inspiration 
from  guide-bcoks  and  vanished  diffidently  from  view.  Ox- 
ford belonged  to  the  ages ;  and  for  the  first  twenty-fifth  part 
of  the  twentieth  century  Waring  had  fancied  that  it 
belonged  to  him.  A  hansom,  overfilled  by  an  American  and 
her  two  daughters,  jingled  lazily  from  Holywell;  the  driver 
exhibited  a  contempt  for  Oxford  no  less  profound  than  for 
America  and  waved  his  whip  from  side  to  side  in  rough 
time  with  the  scornful  scraps  of  information  which  he 
drawled  through  the  trap. 

"Ol'  Clar'nd'n  Buildin'.  Bodleian  be'ind  it.  Trin'ty. 
Balliol." 

Three  heads  nodded  and  turned  mechanically  from  right 
to  left.  The  driver  paused  for  new  instructions,  and  an 
anxious  voice  from  inside  exclaimed: 

"Gracious !  it's  a  quarter  of  seven !  Say,  how  many 
blocks  are  we  from  the  depot?" 

The  high  nasal  intonation  seemed  to  shiver  the  warm 
repose  of  the  afternoon,  and  in  another  moment  the  Broad 
was  echoing  with  life.  A  stream  of  bicycles  poured  down 
Parks  Road ;  blazers  of  every  colour  flashed  into  sight  and 
disappeared;  men  bareheaded  and  men  in  panamas,  men 
with  tennis  racquets  and  men  with  dogs,  men  in  flannels 
and  men  in  tweeds,  a  few,  even,  still  in  white  ties  and  coats 
of  sub  fuse  hue,  parading  the  bondage  of  the  Examination 
Schools,  all  hurried  back  to  make  ready  for  Hall.  Oxford 
still  belonged  to  them.  At  the  gates  of  the  colleges,  de- 
serted a  moment  since,  the  heirs  of  all  the  undergraduate 
ages  assembled  in  careless  disregard  of  their  heritage;  the 
last  bicycles  were  tumbled  into  place ;  the  last  rainbow  blaz- 
ers and  hat-ribbons  vanished  from  sight;  pipes  were  re- 
placed in  pockets,  and  necks  bared  from  the  dingy  embrace 
of  tattered  gowns. 


1.2  LADY  LILITH 

With  a  glance  at  the  watch  on  his  dressing-table,  Jack 
Waring  twisted  himself  to  catch  the  reflection  of  his  bottle- 
green  dress-coat.  It  was  the  envied  livery  of  the  Phoenix 
Club,  which — consistently  with  its  name — died  and  came  to 
life  again  once  a  year.  At  the  end  of  every  summer  term 
not  more  than  one  survivor  remained;  the  following 
Michaelmas  the  new  president  proposed  and  elected  his  own 
friends,  choosing  one  junior  to  carry  on  the  life  and  tradi- 
tions of  the  club  at  the  year's  end.  The  institution  had  en- 
Idured  for  nearly  two  university  generations  and  was  the 
one  constructive  effort  of  Lord  Loring's  life  at  Oxford. 
With  the  grave  Self-absorption  of  nineteen  he  had  de- 
manded a  club  to  which  none  but  his  own  friends  had  access 
and  of  which  he  could  nominate  himself  president  and 
ordain  the  rules  as  he  went  on.  He  had  long  wanted  a  pre- 
text, he  explained  in  his  inaugural  address,  for  wearing  a 
bottle-green  dress-coat  with  brass  buttons  and  white  silk 
facings ;  and  his  position  as  founder  of  the  club  would  give 
him  an  excuse  for  revisiting  Oxford  at  the  end  of  his  law- 
ful term. 

A  faint  frown  of  regret  and  perplexity  hovered  over 
Jack  Waring's  plump  and  cheerful  face,  as  he  resumed  his 
dressing.  He  had  no  fault  to  find  with  Oxford,  where  he 
had  done  more  than  most  men  and  all  that  could  be  expected 
of  any  man.  A  case  full  of  silver  cups  testified  to  his  suc- 
cess in  college  and  university  Grinds;  he  had  been  Master 
of  the  Drag  and  a  member  of  the  Bullingdon;  less  than 
three  days  before  he  had  shewn  his  versatility  by  proceed- 
ing, without  the  ostentation  of  an  Honour  School,  to  the 
degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts.  Colonel  Waring  had  urged 
him  to  enjoy  himself,  and  the  four  years  had  passed  very 
satisfactorily. 

"Eric!" 

"Hullo!    Are  you  ready?" 

The  door  was  kicked  open,  and  Eric  Lane  sauntered  in 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX        13 

and  inspected  his  own  clothes  by  the  revealing  light  of  the 
afternoon  sun.  He  also  was  frowning,  for  the  sense  of 
departure  was  heavy  upon  him  too,  and  the  papers  that  day 
had  not  been  to  his  liking. 

"Our  final  dissipation !"  cried  Jack,  seizing  him  by  the 
arm  and  clattering  down  the  narrow  staircase  into  the  Turl. 
"I  say,  Eric,  I  don't  half  like  the  idea  of  not  coming  up 
next  term ;  I  was  just  beginning  to  find  my  way  about  this 
place.  There  you  see  Lincoln.  Here  we  have  Jaggers. 
I've  never  been  inside  Jaggers.  Shall  we  make  up  a  party 
and  go  to-morrow?" 

A  knot  of  Jesus  men  glared  with  the  dumb  fury  which 
the  small  nations  of  the  world  feel  towards  the  Great 
Powers.  A  sing-song  Welsh  voice  commented  devastat- 
ingly  on  the  vanity  of  bottle-green  dress-coats  and  their 
wearers. 

"I  can't  go  after  that,"  murmured  Jack  with  dignity. 
"  'Never  imagined  they  understood  English.  Ought  I  to 
go  back  and  apologize?"  He  stopped  short  in  front  of  a 
haberdasher's  shop  and  nodded  gravely  at  the  seductive 
window.  Club  colours  and  college  colours  contended  and 
clashed  with  giant  brown  and  yellow  silk  handkerchiefs 
adorned  with  white  bulldogs.  "We  might  buy  them  a 
peace-offering." 

"I  always  wonder  why  you're  not  more  disliked  than  you 
are,"  mused  Eric. 

"People  only  dislike  me  until  I've  given  them  time  to  see 
that  I'm  right  and  they're  wrong,"  explained  Jack  com- 
placently. "I  was  very  unpopular  at  New  College  my  first 
term.  They  wanted  me  to  row — just  because  I'd  rowed  at 
Eton.  You  can't  row  and  hunt.  I  never  did  any  of  the 
things  they  wanted;  the  people  here  are  such  sheep.  Did 
I  ever  tell  you  that  the  rowing  push  came  to  rag  my  rooms 
just  because  I  chose  to  dress  for  Hall?  They  said  it  was 
'side.'  Unfortunately,  their  spokesman  was  drunk,  so  I  had 


14  LADY  LILITH 

to  ask  him  to  leave.  It's  such  bad  form  to  drink  more  than 
you  can  carry.  Now  any  number  of  men  dress  for  Hall. 
Sheep,  just  sheep.  I  think  the  reason  you  and  I  get  on  so 
well  together  is  that  you  don't  try  to  lead  my  life  for  me." 

"Oh,  I'm  used  to  you,"  Eric  interrupted.  "Ever  since  I 
can  remember,  you've  sat  still  and  let  every  one  else  revolve 
round  you.  Your  people,  Agnes,  me " 

Jack  smiled  at  his  reflection  in  the  window.  Though  his 
self-satisfaction  annoyed  women  and  older  men,  no  one 
could  remain  impatient  with  him  for  long.  He  was  always 
too  good-tempered  to  provide  sport  and  too  sure  of  himself 
to  mind  criticism.  The  man  who  is  content  to  do  nothing 
starts,  too,  with  an  advantage  over  the  man  who  not  only 
wants  something  done  but  would  like  it  done  in  his  own 
way.  In  childhood  the  threat  that  he  would  not  be  taken 
to  a  party  unless  he  behaved  himself  well  had  only  once 
been  used  against  Jack;  his  mother  found  afterwards  that 
he  had  genuinely  enjoyed  himself  more  at  home;  and  ever 
since  he  had  won  his  own  way  by  studied  inertia. 

"You're  so  efficient !"  he  explained.  "I  should  never  have 
got  through  my  schools  but  for  you.  And  you  pack  so  well. 
By  the  way,  you've  looked  out  the  trains  for  to-morrow, 
haven't  you?  And  arranged  with  Agnes  for  a  cart  to  meet 
me?  I  hate  writing  letters.  .  .  .  Shall  we  dig  together  in 
London?  If  you'll  find  some  decent  rooms  and  a  man  to 
look  after  us — Agnes  will  help  you  choose  the  furniture — 
and  if  you'll  make  everything  shipshape  and  comfortable, 
I'm  hanged  if  I  don't  come  and  live  with  you !  There !" 

Eric  held  out  his  hand  with  affected  emotion. 

"That's  uncommon  good  of  you!  I  thought  you'd  want 
me  to  choose  some  one  to  live  with  me  in  your  place." 

"I  wish  you'd  find  somebody  to  go  to  the  bar  in  my 
place,"  murmured  Jack  with  a  momentary  return  of  his 
earlier  gloom.  "Can't  you?  The  exams  are  quite  easy  for 
a  man  of  your  powerful  intellect,  and  you  only  have  to  eat 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX       15 

a  few  dinners  and  get  called.  /  should  live  at  Lashmar  as 
the  simple,  old  English  country  gentleman.  .  .  .  Hullo! 
we're  late !  You'll  see  about  paying  the  fine,  won't  you  ?" 

They  crossed  the  High  to  a  chorus  of  welcome  flung  at 
them  from  a  first-floor  window  over  a  pastry-cook's  shop. 
Two  sleek  heads  protruded  over  the  cushions  in  one  tier, 
with  three  more,  less  lovingly  cemented,  in  the  background. 

"Hurry  up,  Spurs,"  shouted  the  president. 

The  name,  applied  jointly  and  severally  to  the  two  men, 
had  passed  through  ingenious  refinements  before  reaching 
its  present  brief  clarity.  If  Waring's  Christian  name  was 
Jack,  his  inseparable  companion  Lane  must  be  Jill ;  if  Jack's 
surname  was  Waring,  Eric's  must  be  Gillow;  the  home  of 
the  furnishing  trade,  if  not  of  Waring  and  Gillow,  was  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road,  which  readily  suggested  Tottenham 
Hotspurs.  An  unexplained  intellectual  craving  was  at 
length  satisfied  when  the  pair  were  renamed  "the  Spurs." 

After  their  first  term  no  one  shewed  the  psychological 
curiosity  to  wonder  why  so  incongruous  a  couple  lived  to- 
gether. Though  neighbours  in  Hampshire,  they  were  from 
different  schools  and  of  different  colleges;  the  shrewd  but 
consummately  indolent  Master  of  the  Drag  was  the  arbiter 
of  taste  for  sporting,  ultra-conservative  Oxford — already  a 
personality  and  almost  a  tradition;  the  fine-drawn  scholar 
of  Trinity  was  a  recluse,  a  dreamer  and  a  rebel,  with  ambi- 
tion corroding  the  fabric  of  a  too  frail  constitution.  Out- 
side the  Phoenix  they  had  few  friends  in  common,  for 
Eric's  disputatious  poets  grew  silent  under  the  breezy  on- 
slaught of  a  more  robust  generation;  Jack's  intellectual 
hunger  was  satisfied  by  Surtees,  the  text-books  for  his 
schools,  the  Sportsman  and  Morning  Post;  while  Eric, 
who  had  divided  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life  between  his 
father's  library  at  Lashmar  Mill-House  and  a  verandah  at 
Broadstairs,  had  read  quickly,  brooded  deeply  and  taken  up 
an  attitude,  sometimes  precocious  but  always  clearly  defined,. 


1 6  LADY  LILITH 

towards  problems  which  as  yet  did  not  exist  for  Jack.  On 
one  side,  the  friendship  was  founded  on  a  worship  of  oppo- 
sites ;  Eric  never  forgot  that  he  had  gone  friendless  through 
six  years  at  school  because  he  was  forbidden  by  his  doctor 
to  play  games.  On  the  other,  Jack  found  devotion  a  con- 
venience ;  he  respected  Eric's  brains  and  needed  some  one  to 
relieve  him  of  minor  exertions  and  to  make  up  his  mind  for 
him.  Accordingly,  though  all  the  fourth-year  men  in  the 
University  would  have  been  honoured  to  live  with  him,  it 
was  to  Eric  that  he  drawled,  "By  the  way,  have  you  ar- 
ranged to  dig  with  any  one  next  term?  Well,  do  go  and 
find  some  decent  quarters,  there's  a  good  fellow." 

"Hullo!  No  fine  to  pay  after  all!"  cried  Jack,  as  he 
burst  into  the  club  dining-room  and  compared  the  number 
of  covers  with  the  members  of  the  Phoenix  already  assem- 
bled. "Who's  coming,  Mr.  President?" 

"O'Rane  and  Deganway  haven't  turned  up  yet,"  an- 
swered Sinclair.  "I've  just  had  a  wire  from  Loring  to  say 
that  he's  motoring  down  with  Oakleigh  and  they'll  probably 
be  late.  Summertown  and  Pentyre  you  can  hear.  It's  their 
idea  of  music,"  he  added,  as  a  free  fight  broke  out  over  the 
piano  in  the  adjoining  room. 

Jack  studied  the  menu,  inspected  the  wine  on  the  side- 
board and  elbowed  himself  a  place  in  the  kneeling  row  at 
the  open  window.  An  interrupted  conversation  struggled 
back  to  plans  for  the  Long  Vacation  and  discussion  of  the 
schools.  Sinclair,  a  stocky,  simple-minded  sportsman,  now 
pitifully  embarrassed  by  his  presidential  duties,  had  been 
chosen  to  play  at  Lord's  for  the  University  and  for  the 
Gentlemen;  after  that  he  would  tour  with  the  Authentics 
till  the  end  of  the  season;  and,  until  the  following  season, 
he  would  interest  himself  in  the  management  of  his  father's 
mines  in  Yorkshire.  Knightrider  and  Framlingham  were 
destined  for  the  army;  Deganway  and  Pentyre  were  due  to 
cram  for  the  Foreign  Office;  Draycott  proposed  to  study 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX       17 

art  in  Paris;  and  Mayhew  had  forced  his  way  into  Fleet 
Street  and  the  offices  of  the  "Wicked  World."  It  was  a 
wide  dispersal;  and  all  felt  that  they  were  changing  a 'life 
of  proved  comfort  for  something  unknown  and  presumably 
less  easy. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Spurs  ?"  Sinclair  asked  Eric. 

"I'm  not  quite  sure.  My  people  want  me  to  try  for  the 
Civil  Service.  I  want  to  have  a  shot  at  journalism.  You 
can't  do  anything  in  the  Civil  Service." 

"Who  wants  to  do  anything?"  retorted  Waring  from  his 
window-seat.  "Late  as  usual,  Raney.  ...  I  only  want 
money  and  decent  holidays.  .  .  .  Sounds  of  a  car,  furiously 
driven.  You'll  have  to  fine  'em  double,  Mr.  President,  if  it's 
Jim  and  George ;  once  for  being  late  and  once  for  not  com- 
ing in  club  dress.  It  is !  Two  dozen  of  fizz  from  each!" 

He  withdrew  his  head  from  the  window  as  the  car  came 
to  a  standstill.  A  moment  later  Loring  entered  apologetic- 
ally in  morning  dress,  fingering  his  moustache  and  smiling 
with  pleasure  at  the  volley  of  welcome;  George  Oakleigh 
followed,  peering  with  approval  at  the  familiar  beams  and 
dingy  panels  of  the  low-ceilinged  room;  while  O'Rane 
strode  across  the  passage  and  brought  the  free  fight  to  an 
end  by  putting  the  heads  of  the  disputants  into  chancery, 
the  president  rapped  the  table  and  tried  to  allot  the  places. 

"Gentlemen !  The  toast  of  the  Phoenix  will  be  drunk  in 
silence,"  he  proclaimed,  as  every  one  obstinately  seated  him- 
self next  to  his  greatest  friend. 

Sinclair  waited  until  the  sherry  was  served  and  then 
rose  to  his  feet.  Of  the  twenty  members  present  only 
O'Rane  was  staying  up  another  year :  in  obedience  to  ritual 
he  remained  seated  in  the  vice-president's  chair. 

"The  Phoenix  is  dead,"  announced  the  president. 

"The  Phoenix  will  rise  again,"  answered  the  vice-presi- 
dent with  awful  gravity.  Then,  as  the  others  sat  down,  he 
added  reflectively,  "  'Wonder  wher9  we  shall  all  be  in  ten 


1 8  LADY  LILITH 

years'  time?  'Wonder  what  we  shall  be  doing?  'Wonder 
how  many  of  us  will  be  dead  ?" 

"You  can  always  depend  on  Raney  for  an  irresistible 
little  note  of  cheerfulness,"  commented  Loring,  as  he 
pulled  in  his  chair  and  looked  round  to  see  who  was  present. 

It  was  then  that  O'Rane  flung  his  prophecy  at  the  head 
of  the  club. 

"Bah !  You  know  as  much  about  life  as  a  Sunday 
School  teacher!"  he  retorted  contemptuously,  banging  his 
hand  on  a  bell.  "Where's  the  betting-book?  And  give  me 
a  pen,  somebody.  Let  you  mark  my  words.  'Mr.  David 
O'Rane  bets  the  Marquess  Loring  ten  sovereigns  that  with- 
in ten  years  of  this  date  five  out  of  the  twenty  members 
present  to-night  will  be  married.  A  further  ten  sovereigns 
that  five  will  be  dead '  " 

"Always  the  optimist,"  murmured  Oakleigh  from  Lor- 
ing's  side. 

"I'll  bet  that  every  one  of  us  will  have  made  such  a  fool 
of  himself  that  it's  wishing  himself  dead  he'll  be.  ...  A 
further  ten  sovereigns  that  one  at  least  will  have  had  to  cut 
the  country.  A  further  ten  that  one  at  least  will  have  lost 
all  his  money.  .  .  .  I'm  only  dealing  in  averages.  Ten 
years,  I  said ;  that's  not  much  for  any  positive  achievement, 
but  I'll  bet  a  further  ten  pounds  that  one — and  not  more 
than  one — will  have  achieved  what  an  independent  tribunal 
considers  fame.  A  further  ten  pounds  that  one  of  us  will 
make  great  money " 

"That's  sixty  pounds,"  interposed  Sinclair  warningly. 

"But  I  shan't  have  to  pay  it,"  answered  O'Rane,  writing 
rapidly.  He  read  out  a  summary  of  the  wager  and  passed 
the  book  for  Loring  to  sign.  "Besides,  I'm  going  to  be  the 
one  who  makes  all  the  money.  I  hope  you  won't  be  one  of 
the  five  who  die,  Jim ;  or  I  shall  have  to  claim  against  your 
estate  and  all.  Which  of  us  will  achieve  fame  in  ten  years  ? 
Draycott  as  an  Academician?  I  don't  see  it.  Spurs  as  a 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX       19 

judge?  'Don't  see  it  either.  The  Gander  as  an  ambassa- 
dor? The  other  Spurs?"  He  looked  round  the  table  and 
went  on  quickly;  half-unconsciously  he  had  decided  that 
Eric  Lane  would  be  the  first  of  the  five  to  die.  "I  should 
mark  down  Sinks  as  the  first  to  marry ;  there's  an  appealing 
domesticity  about  him.  And  we  shall  all  make  colossal 
fools  of  ourselves;  don^t  forget  that!  Folly's  the  great 
leveller.  Jim,  I  think  you'd  better  give  a  dinner  once  a  year 
to  the  survivors  just  to  see  how  we're  getting  on." 

"If  I  don't  die  or  cut  the  country,"  Loring  assented. 

O'Rane  snapped  the  clasp  of  the  betting-book  and  tossed 
it  on  a  chair  behind  him. 

"You're  far  too  healthy  and  respectable,"  he  grunted, 
concentrating  his  attention  on  the  cooling  soup.  "Besides, 
I'm  reserving  that  for  Summertown.  You  know  he's  been 
sent  down  for  good  and  all  ?" 

"A  man  cuts  the  country  because  of  the  disreputability 
of  others,"  answered  Loring.  "By  the  way,  I'm  not  going 
to  be  fined  for  being  late,  Mr.  President,  because  I  had  a 
good  reason.  Also,  the  founder  of  a  club  is  never  fined." 

"Let's  hear  the  reason,"  suggested  the  president. 

"I've  been  taking  the  chair  at  a  family  council."  Loring 
looked  round  the  table  until  he  located  his  cousin  Knight- 
rider.  "You  ought  to  have  been  there,  Victor.  I  don't  want 
to  wash  my  dirty  linen  in  public,  but  Victor  and  I  have  a 
young  cousin  of  twelve,"  he  explained,  "who's  driven  her 
father  out  of  one  continent  and  is  on  the  point  of  driving 
him  out  of  another.  Crawleigh's  a  most  dignified  and 
worthy  viceroy,  and  he's  my  own  uncle,  and  I  wouldn't  say 
a  word  against  him;  but  a  fellow  on  his  staff  told  me  that 
he'd  no  more  control  over  that  child  than  over  the  man  in 
the  moon.  She  does  whatever  she  pleases;  Government 
House  is  turned  upside  down,  and,  if  any  one  tries  to  coerce 
her,  she  just  runs  away.  They've  pursued  her  across  Can- 
ada and  they've  pursued  her  across  India.  Now  she's  been 


20  LADY  LILITH 

sent  home.  The  family  council  was  convened  to  decide 
what  was  to  be  done  with  her.  All  the  uncles  and  aunts  and 
cousins  met  together ;  and  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  we  got 
stuck  with  her.  So,  if  I  disappear  suddenly,  you'll  know 
that  my  young  cousin  has  been  too  much  for  me.  If  that 
isn't  a  good  reason  for  being  late,  I  don't  know  what  is." 

The  president  adroitly  reserved  judgement  on  a  fine  which 
he  knew  would  never  be  paid,  and  the  conversation  reverted 
to  the  former  grim  discussion  of  the  schools  and  vague 
plans  for  the  future.  Eric  Lane  felt  out  of  sympathy  with 
his  surroundings,  for  he  alone  lacked  money  and  influence 
and  a  ready-made  niche.  In  ten  years'  time  Deganway 
would  be  progressing  gently  and  comfortably  in  the  Diplo- 
matic; Summertown  and  Pentyre,  who  were  avowedly 
waiting  for  their  fathers  to  die,  would  either  still  be  waiting 
or  would  have  already  succeeded;  Framlingham  and 
Knightrider  would  be  swallowed  by  the  army,  even  Jack 
Waring  would  make  a  career  for  himself  at  the  bar  or  else- 
where, because  men  with  his  backing  were  not  allowed  to 
fail.  George  Oakleigh  would  be  in  the  House,  probably  an 
under-secretary ;  Loring,  with  his  position  and  an  income 
which  fluctuated  between  a  hundred  thousand  and  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  a  year  in  accordance  with  the  yield 
of  certain  mines,  might  be  anywhere. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  when  you  go  down?"  Eric 
asked  O'Rane. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  That's  where  the  fun  comes 
in,"  O'Rane  answered  buoyantly. 

"Starting  behind  scratch  ?" 

"Yes,  that  gives  you  an  incentive.  I  wonder  which  of  us 
will  get  to  the  top  first." 

"I  wonder  how  one  starts." 

"Oh,  you'll  write.  I've  never  had  any  doubt  of  that. 
That  rot  I  was  talking  about  averages  wasn't  all  rot;  we 
ought  to  turn  out  one  genius,  and  you're  going  to  do  some- 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX   21 

thing  very  big.  I  declare  to  my  soul  I'm  not  ragging !  I've 
seen  the  things  you  wrote  for  Cap  and  Bells,  I've  heard 
you  talk  and  I  can  see  you're  on  a  different  plane  from  the 
rest  of  us.  I  could  probably  beat  you  at  pure  scholarship, 
but  you've  a  literary  sense  which  I  should  never  attain  in 
a  life-time.  Do  you  care  for  a  bet  with  me?" 

Eric  shook  his  head;  but  he  felt  the  need  of  encourage- 
ment, and  O'Rane  was  more  serious  than  he  usually  con- 
descended to  be. 

"I  won't  rob  you,  Raney." 

"Robbery  be  blowed!  You  won't  bet  against  your  des- 
tiny. In  ten  years'  time  you'll  have  beaten  the  whole  of 
our  generation,  starting  behind  scratch.  And,  God's  my 
witness,  I'd  sooner  have  that  than  be  born  with  a  title  and  a 
million  pounds  a  minute  like  Jim.  Hullo,  they're  off !  Jim, 
may  I  take  wine  with  you  ?" 

He  raised  his  glass  and  was  quickly  followed  by  Oakleigh 
and  Summertown.  Loring  flushed  a  little  at  the  compli- 
ment of  being  chosen  first.  In  order  of  popularity  O'Rane 
followed  as  a  close  second,  with  Waring  third.  Pentyre, 
Summertown  and  Deganway  toasted  one  another ;  Oakleigh 
was  honoured  as  an  afterthought  by  half  the  table.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence,  as  the  glasses  were  recharged,  and 
Jack  Waring  leaned  forward  with  a  smile. 

"Eric?    Best  of  luck." 

"Best  of  luck,  Jack." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  both  smiled.  Then  the  interrupted 
dinner  went  on.  Oakleigh  was  detected,  reported  and  fined 
for  smoking  without  permission;  Pentyre  was  deprived  of 
port  wine  for  allowing  the  decanter  to  stand  at  his  elbow, 
A  vote  was  taken,  and  Draycott  was  censured  for  wearing  a 
pleated  shirt.  Less  constitutionally,  '  Deganway  was 
stretched  on  the  floor  and  deprived  of  his  eye-glass  amid 
falsetto  protests.  Then  the  loving-cup  went  round,  and  all 
stood  to  drink  the  health  of  the  king  and  of  fox-hunting, 


22  LADY  LILITH 

the  president  and  vice-president,  absent  members  and  "our 
glorious  founder."  Sinclair  presented  a  seven-branch  can- 
dlestick to  the  collection  of  club  plate ;  and  Loring  proposed 
and  carried  a  unanimous  vote  of  thanks. 

"And  now  a  little  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  from  Raney," 
ordained  the  president,  as  the  last  speech  came  to  an  end 
and  he  led  the  way  into  the  next  room. 

Prising  open  a  box  of  cigars,  he  sniffed  it  with  the  suspi- 
cion of  inexperience  and  proffered  it  diffidently  to  Oak- 
leigh.  O'Rane  slid  on  to  the  music-stool,  while  Degan- 
way  and  Waring,  Summertown  and  Eric  sprawled  over  the 
top  of  the  piano  with  pipes  doggedly  gripped  between  their 
teeth  and  with  their  chins  resting  on  their  arms,  demanding 
of  the  musician  that  he  should  give  them  "something  with  a 
chorus."  Pentyre  withdrew  to  an  armchair  and  fell  asleep ; 
the  others  formed  themselves  into  a  circle  round  Loring  and 
tried  to  talk  against  the  music. 

"Long  years  ago,  fourteen,  may  be, 

When  but  a  tiny  babe  of  four, 
Another  babe  played  with  me, 

My  elder  by  a  year  or  more. 
A  little  child  of  beauty  rare, 
With  marvellous  eyes  and  -wondrous  hair, 
Who,  in  my  child-eyes,  seemed  to  me 
All  that  a  little  child  should  be. 

Ah,  how  we  loved,  that  child  and  I, 
How  pure  our  baby  joy! 

How  true  our  love — and,  by-the-by, 
HE  was  a  little  boy!" 

Waring,  as  "Angela"  struck  in  with  a  deep,  reproachful 
bass: 

"Ah,  old,  old  tale  of  Cupid's  touch! 
I  thought  as  much — /  thought  as  much! 
He  WAS  a  little   boy " 

"Patience"  justified  herself  shyly. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX        23 

"Pray  don't  misconstrue  what  I  say — 
Remember,  pray — remember,  pray, 
He  was  a  LITTLE  boy" 

O'Rane  gave  the  "Wandering  Minstrel"  as  a  solo,  fol- 
lowed by  "A  Pair  of  Sparkling  Eyes"  and  "Is  Life  a 
Boon?" 

Loring  turned  approvingly  to  George  Oakleigh. 

"Raney's  got  a  ripping  voice,"  he  said.  "And  he's  in 
good  form  to-night.  All  the  same,  we  must  be  getting  back, 
George,  if  you  want  to  be  in  London  early  to-morrow 
morning.  It's  very  pleasant  to  see  all  these  boys  again. 
Sad,  too,  very  sad;  the  young  lions  with  all  their  troubles 
before  them." 

"I  suppose  this  is  absolutely  the  end,"  sighed  Sinclair. 
"Shall  I  see  you  at  Lord's,  Jim?" 

As  the  party  began  to  break  up,  a  chill  of  collective  wist- 
fulness  descended  upon  it,  too  strong  for  even  O'Rane  to 
dispel. 

"Yes,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  watch  the  play.  But  I'll 
look  intelligent." 

It  was  still  so  early  when  the  straggling  escort  convoyed 
Oakleigh  and  Loring  into  the  safety  of  their  hotel  that  an 
hour  was  agreeably  spent  by  each  in  accompanying  every 
one  else  home.  Jack  and  Eric  reached  the  Broad,  only  to 
turn  back  and  take  Deganway  to  Grove  Street,  and  from 
Grove  Street  they  all  proceeded  by  Boar  Lane  to  St. 
Aldates.  Here  O'Rane  protested  that  he  could  not  go  to 
bed  until  he  had  disposed  of  Sinclair  in  comfort.  At  a 
quarter  to  twelve  the  whole  party,  intact  and  a  little  bored, 
found  itself  on  Magdalen  Bridge;  Jack  and  Eric  broke 
away  at  a  run  up  Long  Wall,  and  the  others,  led  by  O'Rane, 
traversed  the  High  for  the  fourth  time  that  -night. 

The  familiar  rooms  at  the  corner  of  the  Turl  were  bare 
and  disordered  with  the  signs  of  coming  departure.  The 
undulating  floor  of  the  sitting-room  was  littered  with  paper 


24  LADY  LILITH 

and  straw,  with  cases  of  books  and  half-filled  crates  of  pic- 
tures ;  on  a  dusting-sheet  in  one  corner  was  gathered  a  mis- 
cellany of  broken  pipes  and  perished  pouches,  tattered  note- 
books and  sprung  rackets,  torn  photographs,  old  shoes  and 
a  policeman's  helmet.  Overflowing  trunks  and  yawning 
Gladstone  bags  projected  from  the  bedrooms  on  to  the  nar- 
row, gas-lit  landing. 

"Nice,  comfortable  quarters,"  observed  Jack,  as  he  looked 
for  somewhere  to  sit.  "It  was  quite  a  good  evening,  you 
know.  The  part  I  liked  best  was  when  it  was  all  over. 
Oxford  looks  quite  decent  at  night." 

Eric  had  been  trained  to  economy  of  enthusiasm  in  talk- 
ing to  Jack,  who  would  not  have  understood  him  if  he  had 
said  that  the  Meadows  on  a  May  morning  or  the  Bodleian 
from  All  Souls,  or  the  Trinity  limes  in  leaf  or  a  pack  of  low, 
grey  clouds  racing  across  the  sky  behind  Magdalen  Tower 
made  him  drunk  with  the  consciousness  of  physical  beauty. 
And  he  wondered  what  he  could  ever  have  said  to  betray  to 
O'Rane  his  secret  yearning  for  self-expression. 

"Our  last  night  in  Oxford,"  he  murmured. 

"Oh,  I  think  I  shall  come  up  occasionally  and  dine  with 
the  lads." 

Eric  said  nothing;  but  the  sense  of  incongruity  with  his 
surroundings  still  oppressed  him,  and  he  privately  resolved 
that  he  would  not  revisit  Oxford  until  he  had  done  some- 
thing to  put  himself  at  least  on  the  level  of  his  friends,  per- 
haps above  them.  That  night  he  lulled  himself  to  sleep 
with  a  vision  in  which  he  burst  on  the  world  as  a  new  Byron 
and  took  London  by  storm  in  a  night.  Comely  heads  turned 
and  whispered  his  name,  as  he  strode  down  Bond  Street; 
the  windows  were  full  of  his  photograph ;  when  he  entered 
a  room  there  was  a  hush  of  reverence  for  the  new  novelist, 
the  rising  playwright,  the  last  wit  and  latest  "fashion.  All 
his  day-dreams  led  him  to  the  stage.  There,  after  twisting 
the  house  to  laughter  and  tears,  he  would  nonchalantly 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX        25 

allow  himself  to  be  called  before  the  curtain;  after  three 
gossamer  epigrams,  he  would  retire  with  a  perfunctory  bow. 
And  there  would  follow  supper  on  the  stage  for  George 
Oakleigh,  who  was  only  a  subordinate  minister,  and  Loring, 
who  was.  only  governor  of  a  colony,  and  Jack,  who  was  only 
a  successful  barrister,  and  Knightrider,  who  was  only  a 
subaltern  in  the  Guards,  and  Summertown,  who  was  only  a 
third  secretary  on  leave  from  a  distant  legation,  and  Pen- 
tyre,  who  had  been  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth 
and  had  doiw  nothing.  .  .  .  The  vision  was  so  stimulating 
that  he  resolved  to  conjure  it  up  again  whenever  he  felt 
depressed. 

They  were  roused  in  the  morning  by  the  cheerful  and 
insistent  voices  of  a  cavalcade  which  reined  in  under  Jack's 
windows  for  the  last  opportunity  of  wishing  him  good- 
bye. .  .  .  Unembarrassed  by  spectators,  he  made  a  leisurely 
toilet  and  refused  to  be  intimidated  by  Eric's  prophecies 
that  they  would  lose  their  train.  "There  is  sure  to  be  an- 
other," he  pointed  out,  as  he  finished  brushing  his  short, 
mouse-coloured  hair  and  satisfied  himself  that  he  was 
smoothly  shaved.  Undergraduate  Oxford  was  all  too  care- 
less of  its  appearance,  and  Jack  secretly  believed  that  sloven- 
liness in  clothes  was  the  visible  sign  of  depravity  in  morals. 
Colonel  Waring  had  said  so,  basing  himself  on  his  experi- 
ence in  the  army.  Jack  respected  his  father's  judgement, 
because  it  so  often  coincided  with  his  own. 

He  appeared  in  time  to  see  Eric  distributing  the  last  tips 
and  counting  the  luggage  as  it  was  piled  on- top  of  the  cabs. 
Waving  good-bye  to  their  landlord  and  surrounded  by 
their  escort,  they  drove  with  self-conscious  solemnity  to  the 
station,  cut  a  passage  through  the  jungle  of  dogs  and  cricket 
bags  on  the  platform  and  bribed  a  porter  to  find  an  empty 
first-class  carriage  and  to  lock  the  door  after  them.  While 
Jack  possessed  himself  of  the  papers,  Eric  watched  the 
familiar  landmarks  fading  one  by  one  from  view  as  the 


26  LADY  LILITH 

train  steamed  out  of  Oxford :  Tom  Tower  and  the  Cathe- 
dral spire,  the  reservoir  and  gasworks,  the  Abingdon  Road 
and  Boar's  Hill.  The  whistle  of  the  engine  as  it  entered 
Culham  sounded  like  the  last  chord  in  an  operatic  score. 
Oxford  was  over.  He  remembered  his  shyness  in  first 
approaching  it  four  years  earlier  and  wondered  whether  he 
would  as  quickly  overcome  the  sense  of  loneliness  which 
filled  his  mind  at  the  thought  of  working  in  London. 
'  "When  do  your  bar  lectures  start?"  he  asked  with  a 
drawl  which  attempted  to  emulate  his  companion's  easy 
carelessness. 

Jack  tossed  aside  the  Sportsman  and  yawned  with  lazy 
contentment. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  he  answered. 
i     "I  was  thinking  about  rooms.     I'm  going  up  almost  at 
once  for  a  month  on  trial  with  the  London  News.    You've 
got  no  preferences?" 

"I'd  trust  your  taste  and  judgement  anywhere." 

Eric  laughed  a  little  impatiently. 

"You — are — the — laziest — brute — I've  ever  come  across. 
Are  you  going  to  behave  like  this  at  the  bar?" 

Jack  put  up  his  feet  and  closed  his  eyes. 

"It's  not  half  a  bad  idea,"  he  mused.  "I  believe,  if  I  let 
it  be  known  that  I  didn't  want  briefs,  the  solicitors  would 
form  up  at  the  early  door  out  of  sheer  perversity.  Every- 
thing comes  to  him  who  doesn't  much  care  whether  it  comes 
or  not.  You  see,  as  soon  as  you  want  anything,  you  in- 
crease the  demand  and  raise  the  price  against  yourself ;  it's 
a  great  thing  to  have  studied  political  economy.  If  I  ever 
marry  it  will  be  some  one  who's  madly  in  love  with  me  and 
whom  I  can  just  tolerate.  If  you're  fool  enough  to  try  it 
the  other  way  round,  you're  simply  selling  yourself  into 
slavery.  ...  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  not  lazy  at  all,  but 
I  refuse  to  fuss  about  unimportant  things.  I  had  all  this 
business  out  with  the  guv'nor  two  years  ago ;  I'd  got  to  do 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX   27 

something  for  a  living,  and  he  had  all  sorts  of  gold-lace 
jobs  in  contemplation — clerk  in  the  House  of  Lords,  agent 
to  my  uncle  at  Penley,  private  secretary  to  this  man  and 
that.  I  said  it  wasn't  good  enough.  If  I  couldn't  go  into 
the  army  like  him,  I'd  go  somewhere  where  I  could  make 
money.  We  haven't  any  particular  influence  in  the  city,  so 
I  chose  the  bar;  and  I've  every  intention  o£  making  money 
there.  That's  important.  But  I  can't  wear  myself  out  look- 
ing for  digs  when  I've  a  kind  friend  to.  do  it  for  me.  And 
I  never  try  to  do  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time.  During  the 
next  few  weeks  I  shall  stay  with  several  very  pleasant  peo- 
ple. Lady  Knightrider's  invited  me  to  Raglan  as  usual; 
and  I'm  going  to  Croxton  with  the  Pentyres ;  and  to  House 
of  Steynes  with  Jim  Loring;  and  to  Ireland  with  George 
Oakleigh.  I  wish  you'd  come,  too;  I've  got  such  a  good 
country-house  manor,  I  should  like  you  to  see  it." 

"I've  got  to  work." 

"So  have  I — every  bit  as  much  as  you,"  Jack  answered 
aggressively.  "But  I  never  believe  in  meeting  trouble  half- 
way." His  voice  became  drowsy,  and  he  composed  himself 
for  sleep.  "Wake  me,  when  we  get  to  Beading." 

Such  philosophic  detachment  was  a  birthright,  not  to  be 
bought  or  borrowed;  and  Eric  looked  with  a  mixture  of 
amusement  and  envy  at  his  slumbering  friend.  Some  time 
in  the  autumn  the  bar  term  would  begin,  there  would  be 
lectures  and  examinations,  Jack  would  be  called ;  later  he 
would  pay  a  hundred  pounds  to  an  overworked  junior  for 
the  privilege  of  sitting  in  a  pupil- room  and  confusing  his 
head  with  such  papers  as  he  was  allowed  to  see;  he  would 
find  chambers  of  his  own  and  choose  a  circuit  and  open  it. 
And  get  together  a  practice — or  fail.  In  the  meantime  he 
slept  with  the  sun  shining  on  his  face,  trimly  brushed  and 
shaved,  smiling,  rosy  and  round-cheeked  as  a  plough-boy. 

Eric  could  not  so  casually  leave  the  future  to  look  after 
itself;  and  he  was  preparing,  with  a  highly-strung  man's 


28  LADY  LILITH 

dread  of  altercation,  for  a  conflict  with  his  family.  Dr. 
Lane's  suggestions  were  purely  scholastic — a  fellowship,  if 
possible;  failing  that,  a  position  on  the  staff  of  one  of  the 
great  public  schools.  Either  would  give  him  security  and 
a  chance  of  earning  money  at  once.  There  must  be  other 
things,  of  course,  but  a  philologist  lived  too  much  out  of  the 
world  to  give  practical  advice.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Lane  favoured  the 
Civil  Service;  but  Eric,  from  the  editorial  chair  of  Cap  and 
Bdls,  had  lately  made  journalism  the  fabric  of  his  day- 
dreams. During  his  last  term  the  editor  of  the  London 
News  came  to  Oxford  as  guest  of  honour  at  a  dinner  of 
the  Sherbrooke  Club;  with  eye  professionally  skinned  for 
rising  talent,  he  had  been  first  amused  and  then  impressed 
by  his  young  host;  there  followed  a  vague  proposal  of  an 
article,  and  Eric  had  been  careful  to  thrust  his  foot  into  the 
yielding  doorway  of  the  paper  until  a  month's  trial  was 
suggested. 

A  red-brick  wilderness  of  villas  warned  him  that  they 
were  running  into  Reading.  He  prodded  Jack  awake,  col- 
lected his  luggage  from  the  rack  and  changed  into  the  Bas- 
ingstroke  train.  At  Winchester  a  dog-cart,  driven  by  a  stiff, 
military  groom,  and  a  pony  trap,  with  an  eight-year-old 
child  and  her  governess,  awaited  them.  The  luggage  ap- 
peared unhurriedly  and  was  separated  and  stowed  out  of 
sight.  Jack  edged  away  after  a  shy  greeting  to  Sybil  Lane, 
and  a  moment  later  they  were  heading  through  the  town 
for  the  Melton  and  Lashmar  road. 

"Roll  round  some  time  and  discuss  those  digs,"  Eric 
shouted,  as  the  pony-trap  turned  from  the  high-crowned 
Melton  road  and  jolted  into  the  twilight  of  unreclaimed 
woodland  whose  youngest  trees  were  old  and  firm-rooted 
before  the  New  Forest  had  begun  to  show  the  first  green  of 
its  leaves. 

"No,  you  come  to  me,"  Jack  called  back.  "It's  shorter 
for  you,  because  you  walk  so  much  faster." 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX        29 

As  the  low  lines  of  the  Mill-House  came  in  sight,  Mrs. 
Lane  rose  from  her  chair  by  the  studded  front  door,  closed 
her  book  and  waved  a  handkerchief  in  welcome.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  Eric  felt  that  this  was  no  longer  his 
home.  Lashmar  and  Oxford  belonged  to  a  youth  wherein 
he  was  not  required  to  look  for  a  career  or  to  trouble  about 
money  and  ambition.  Within  a  week  he  would  be  occupy- 
ing chambers  of  his  own  and  earning  his  own  living. 

"Well,  dear  Eric,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  You're 
looking  thin,"  said  his  mother. 

"I'm  all  right,  thanks.  How  are  you,  mother?  Is  the 
guv'nor  working?"  asked  Eric. 

The  need  for  action  was  strong  upon  him,  and  he  had  to 
explain  once  and  for  all  that  he  aimed  at  something  more 
than  security  and  a  chance  of  earning  money  at  once. 

"He's  indoors." 

Eric  ducked  his  head  and  entered  the  long,  low  house. 
It  was  dark  after  the  glowing  June  sunlight  outside,  chill- 
ingly cold,  too ;  from  the  back  of  the  house  came  the  gentle 
murmur  of  the  Bort  with  an  unchanging  drone  of  falling 
water  and  a  regular  double  creak  from  the  mill-wheel,  like 
the  slow  cadence  of  a  grandfather's  clock.  Through  the 
open  French  windows  of  the  dining-room  he  sniffed  the 
stream's  familiar  scent  of  decay,  half-smothered  by  the 
coarse  reek  of  a  blazing  patch  of  marigolds.  Lashmar  Mill- 
House  was,  for  Eric,  a  place  where  ambition  was  brought 
to  die. 

Without  waiting  to  be  disturbed,  Dr.  Lane  rattled  open 
the  door  of  the  library  and  appeared  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
fleshless,  tall  and  stooping,  with  the  gentle,  brown  eyes, 
black  hair  and  aquiline  nose  which  he  had  handed  down  to 
Eric.  An  unkempt  brown  moustache  drooped  drearily  on 
either  side  of  a  long  corncob  pipe-stem,  and  his  bony  hands 
fidgetted  with  an  untanned  strap  round  his  waist. 

"I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,"  said  Eric  to  his  parents. 


30  LADY  LILITH 

"I'm  starting  work  next  week  with  the  Loiidon  News. 
Jack  and  I  are  going  to  live  together." 

Mrs.  Lane  nursed  a  well-founded  suspicion  that  Jack 
preyed  on  her  son's  scant  vitality,  but  she  shrank  from  con- 
fessing jealousy  of  his  friend. 

"Let's  have  a  day  or  two  to  think  things  over,"  she  pro- 
posed. "Journalism  is  very  wearing." 

"But  everything's  arranged,"  Eric  answered. 

And  next  morning  he  rose  from  breakfast  and  started 
through  the  Forest  to  Red  Roofs  and  the  task  of  pinning 
Jack  down  to  the  joint  establishment  in  London.  Every 
step  on  the  familiar  road  was  a  gesture  of  farewell.  There 
was  a  recognized  point  in  the  two-mile  walk  where  even  the 
smoke  of  the  Mill-House  chimneys  was  invisible;  another 
point  where  he  had  to  jump  from  stone  to  stone  across  a 
furlong  of  marsh;  and  another  where  the  forest  thinned 
imperceptibly  and  vanished.  Over  the  tops  of  the  last  trees 
appeared  a  row  of  small-bricked  Tudor  chimneys,  dusty- 
grey  in  the  sunshine ;  then  the  deep  red  tiles  of  the  gabled 
roofs;  then  the  house  itself,  three-quarters  covered  in 
creeper  that  swung  in  the  breeze  and  veiled  the  narrow 
windows  with  a  curtain  of  tangled  green.  It  was  the  per- 
fect frame,  Eric  thought,  for  a  perfect  picture  of  country 
toryism ;  a  social  analyst  could  not  look  at  the  house  without 
peopling  it  in  imagination  with  the  cadet  branch  of  a  rankly 
conservative  family — conventional,  godly,  sporting,  military 
and,  by  a  freak,  unexpectedly  evangelical — in  a  word,  with 
such  a  family  as  the  Warings.  The  colonel  was  returning 
home  from  an  early  gallop;  he  reined  in  his  horse  and 
walked  beside  Eric  to  the  gate  of  the  stable-yard,  erect  and 
dapper,  with  a  dictatorial  voice  and  a  hint  of  ill-temper  in 
his  bearing,  his  face  weather-beaten  and  the  white  of  his 
eyes  faintly  tinged  with  yellow. 

"Hullo !  How  are  you  ?  How's  your  father  ?  How's  the 
magnum  opus?"  he  asked,  as  he  dismounted  and  walked 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PHOENIX       31 

towards  the  house.  The  three  questions  never  varied,  and 
the  colonel  derived  immense  private  amusement  from  the 
thought  that  Dr.  Lane  had  given  thirty  years  of  his  life  to 
an  Anglo-Saxon  dictionary.  "Jack  tells  me  you're  going  to 
be  a  journalist.  Dog's  life,  I've  always  heard." 

"I  hope  it  won't  be  only  journalism,"  said  Eric,  who  was 
sensitive  enough  to  be  daunted  by  the  misgiving  which  his 
proposed  career  excited  first  in  his  parents  and  now  in  an 
unbiased  outsider.  "I  hope  to  do  some  rather  more  original 
work  as  well." 

"Original?  That's  bad!  Seven-act  tragedies  and  five- 
volume  novels."  Colonel  Waring  had  evolved  the  belief 
that  young  men  could  be  coaxed  out  of  their  natural  shy- 
ness by  well-timed  jocosity.  "You  must  excuse  me,  I'm 
going  to  have  my  bath.  You'll  find  every  one  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, I  expect." 

Eric  escaped  with  relief  and  ran  Jack  to  earth  in  the 
faded  dining-room,  where  he  was  finishing  a  late  breakfast. 
His  sister  ministered  to  his  wants,  keeping  the  food  warm 
in  a  chafing-dish,  plying  him  with  coffee  and  fetching  him 
clean  plates.  Mrs.  Waring,  plump,  idle  and  self-indulgent, 
was  fondly  overhauling  her  son's  wardrobe  when  Eric  en- 
tered the  room. 

"Dear  Jack,  you  can't  go  to  Lady  Knightrider's  un- 
til you've  ordered  yourself  some  new  shirts.  These  are  a 
disgrace,"  she  protested. 

Jack  nodded  without  looking  up  from  his  paper. 

"I  know.  I  was  waiting  till  I  got  home  so  that  Agnes 
could  write  to  my  man.  I  always  forget  his  name.  Hullo, 
Eric!  You're  bursting  with  energy  this  morning.  Have 
some  capital  kidneys  and  bacon?" 

"I  came  to  talk  about  where  we  are  going  to  live,"  Eric 
explained,  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Waring. 

"But  I  thought  I'd  left  that  to  you?  Why  don't  you  and 
Agnes  arrange  something?"  Jack  filled  a  pipe  and  strolled 


32  LADY  LILITH 

towards  the  open  window.  "The  guv'nor  seems  to  have  got 
me  elected  to  the  County  Club ;  he  rather  favours  my  trying 
to  get  a  bedroom  there." 

Eric  felt  a  twinge  of  dismay.  It  was  only  natural  that  a 
club  should  have  been  found  for  Jack,  as  everything  else 
was  found ;  but  Eric  could  not  afford  to  'let  him  slip  away. 
Perhaps  the  suggestion  was  only  a  diplomatic  hint  that,  if 
he  were  troubled  further,  he  would  follow  the  line  of  least 
resistance. 

"Oh,  no !  You're  coming  with  me.  If  you've  no  prefer- 
ences, Agnes  and  I  will  go  straight  ahead." 

He  motioned  to  the  girl,  and  they  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den together.  Agnes  Waring,  in  company  with  her  mother, 
had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  Jack  was  the  one  person 
in  the  house  who  mattered;  though  intellectually  head  and 
shoulder  his  superior,  she  had  been  kept  at  home  from  the 
day  when  Colonel  Waring  demonstrated  incontrovertibly 
that  he  could  not  afford  to  send  her  to  Newnham  if  Jack 
was  to  be  given  an  adequate  allowance  at  Oxford.  Once 
isolated  at  home,  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  run  errands 
for  her  father  and  brother.  At  her  suggestion  it  was  now 
arranged  that  Eric  should  look  for  rooms  in  the  Temple. 

Two  days  later  he  wrote  that  he  had  discovered  an  ideal 
set  of  chambers  in  Pump  Court,  and  for  a  week  they 
worked  to  get  it  in  order  for  Jack's  arrival  in  October.  On 
the  last  afternoon  Agnes  looked  on  her  completed  handi- 
work and  sighed  with  satisfaction  and  envy. 

"If  you're  not  comfortable,  you  ought  to  be,"  she  de- 
clared. "Men  are  lucky  creatures.  I  wish  I  could  change 
places  with  you,  Eric." 

"So  that  you  could  wait  on  Jack?" 

"I  should  like  that,  of  course.  ...  I  hope  Jack  does  well 
at  the  bar.  You  will  make  him  work,  won't  you  ?" 

Eric  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  into  the  silent  lit- 
tle court. 


33 

"Can  any  one  make  him  do  anything  he  doesn't  want  to? 
I  wonder  whether  he  was  wise  to  choose  the  bar.  I  wonder 
whether  I  was  wise  to  choose  journalism,  whether  any  of 
us  ...  We  had  a  very  cheerful  dinner  on  our  last  night 
at  Oxford.  There  were  about  twenty  of  us,  and  one  man 
bet  that  in  ten  years'  time  five  of  us  would  be  dead  and  a 
certain  number  bankrupt.  A  certain  number  more  would 
have  to  cut  the  country.  So  far  as  I  remember  only  one 
was  to  make  anything  of  a  success.  Not  an  encouraging 
forecast." 

"A  very  cynical  forecast,"  Agnes  distinguished. 

"Will  he  win  his  bet?" 

"Oh,  a  man  of  character  can  make  anything  of  his  life," 
she  answered  with  a  glance  of  fleeting  interest  and  affec- 
tion which  he  did  not  see. 

Eric  recalled  the  extraordinarily  young  faces  at  the  last 
dinner  of  the  Phoenix.  Their  outlook  was  frivolous  and 
their  talk  trivial.  He  was  already  feeling  older  in  ten 
days. 

"Do  you  get  more  than  one  man  of  character  in  twenty?" 
he  asked. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  COMING  OF  LILITH 

"What  private  man  in  England  is  worse  off  than  the  constitu- 
tional monarch?  ...  I  don't  believe  he  may  even  eat  or  drink 
what  he  likes  best :  a  taste  for  tripe  and  onions  on  his  part  would 
provoke  a  remonstrance  from  the  Privy  Council." 

BERNARD  SHAW:    "AN  UNSOCIAL  SOCIALIST." 

THE  partnership  in  Pump  Court  lasted  for  more  than 
four  years.  After  nicely  judging  the  minimum  of  work 
which  would  carry  him  through  his  bar  examinations,  Jack 
surprised  his  friends  by  closing  the  former  life  of  indolence 
with  a  snap.  When  assizes  were  on,  he  made  an  un- 
discriminating  round  of  the  North  Eastern  circuit,  con- 
ducting a  dock  defence  as  though  it  were  a  state  trial; 
in  London  he  attended  suburban  county  courts  with  as 
much  zeal  as  if  he  had  been  sent  special.  During  the  Long 
Vacation  he  remained  at  the  end  of  a  wire ;  the  Bar  Point- 
to-Point  was  sacrificed  without  a  murmur,  and  invitations 
during  his  working  day  seldom  penetrated  farther  than  the 
telephone  in  his  clerk's  room. 

Once  a  year,  indeed,  he  consented  to  meet  his  friends  at 
dinner  with  Loring,  but  they  were  contracting  new  ties  and 
professing  enthusiasms  which  he  did  not  share.  Framling- 
ham  and  Knightrider  had  been  drilled  into  the  professional 
rigidity  and  limited  outlook  of  junior  subalterns  in  crack 
regiments:  Oakleigh  was  a  politician,  Pentyre  a  man  of 
leisure;  Summertown  had  abandoned  diplomacy  for  the 
army — the  life  of  a  public  danger  for  that  of  a  private 
nuisance,  as  Valentine  Arden,  the  novelist,  complained  in 
a  moment  of  exasperation.  Deganway,  on  the  same  au- 

34 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  35 

thority,  rested  in  the  Foreign  Office  by  .day  and  spent 
tireless  nights  adding  to  the  number  of  those  who  addressed 
him  by  his  Christian  name.  O'Rane  and  Mayhew  were 
abroad. 

Had  he  ever  felt  the  inclination,  Jack  professed  to  be 
without  the  time  or  energy  to  take  part  in  a  social  life  of 
dinners  and  dances.  Exchanging  one  pose  for  another,  he 
had  ceased  to  be  the  arbiter  of  "good  form,"  as  that  is 
understood  at  Eton  and  New  College,  and  was  aping  the 
manners  of  an  older  generation;  the  new  aloofness,  like 
the  old,  dispensed  him  from  doing  anything  that  he  did 
not  like  and  gratified  his  faint  but  ineradicable  sense  of 
superiority.  At  night  he  now  chose  the  society  of  his  own 
profession  at  the  County  Club  and  steeped  himself  in 
forensic  retorts  discourteous  and  the  aroma  of  judicial 
wit;  by  day  he  chopped  leading  cases  at  luncheon  in  Hall 
and  smoked  one  cigarette  in  the  Gardens,  striding  up  and 
down  with  his  chin  deep  on  his  white  slips  and  his  hands 
locked  beneath  the  tails  of  his  coat.  He  was  too  busy  for 
week-end  parties,  too  old  to  take  his  sister  to  dances. 

"It  doesn't  do  to  be  seen  lunching  at  your  club  too 
much,"  he  explained  to  Eric,  when  at  the  end  of  four 
years  he  had  decided  that  the  inconvenience  of  moving  was 
less  than  that  of  continuing  to  live  in  the  Temple.  "People 
think  you've  no  work.  Trouble  is,  I'm  getting  no  exer- 
cise. I  think  I  shall  have  to  move  away  so  that  I  can  get 
a  walk  in  the  morning." 

Eric  received  the  news  with  little  surprise  and  hardly 
more  regret.  Jack  was  in  chambers  before  he  himself  got 
up  in  the  morning  and  in  bed  before  the  London  News 
began  to  print  off.  The  dissolution  would  only  cost  them 
an  occasional  half-hour's  talk  in  the  early  evening  and  a 
rare  Sunday  walk  when  Jack  was  not  staying  at  Red  Roofs. 

"Nineteen  nine,  nineteen  five,"  Eric  calculated.  "We're 
twenty-six  and  we've  had  four  years  here.  By  the  way, 


3  6  LADY  LILITH 

are  you  dining  with  Jim  to-night?  Give  him  my  love  and 
say  I  wish  I  could  come  too.  It's  no  good,  if  I  have  to  run 
away  after  the  fish.  I  remember  your  father  telling  me  that 
journalism  was  a  dog's  life.  He  never  spoke  a  truer  word." 

"But  you've  done  extraordinarily  well,"  Jack  insisted, 
rousing  reluctantly  from  tEe  contemplation  of  his  own 
career.  "What  are  you?  Dramatic  critic  and  assistant  lit- 
erary editor?  And  you're  making  a  dam'  sight  more  than 
I  am.  I've  decided  to  give  up  this  twopenny  ha'penny  crim- 
inal work.  Otherwise  I  shall  get  left  in  a  rut." 

Eric  was  thinking  less  of  his  routine  work  than  of  four 
dog's-eared  plays  which  he  had  sent  th.e  round  of  the  Lon- 
don managers ;  a  critic  was  ever  one  who  could  not  create. 

"The  right  people  have  died  at  the  right  time,"  he  ex- 
plained. "It's  not  quite  what  I  hoped,  though." 

Jack  knocked  out  his  pipe  and  left  Eric  to  finish  his  early 
dinner  by  himself.  It  was  the  anniversary  of  their  last 
Phoenix  Club  gathering  at  Oxford;  and  for  the  last  four 
years  a  dozen  or  more  of  them  had  contrived  to  meet  at  the 
end  of  every  June.  So  far,  O'Eane's  pessimistic  forecast 
had  halted  short  of  fulfilment;  none  was  dead,  none  was 
bankrupt,  though  Draycott  was  living  at  Boulogne  with  a 
warrant  in  readiness  for  him,  if  he  ever  returned  to  Eng- 
land. Sinclair  was  married,  but  the  others  had  not  yet 
found  time  for  triumph  or  disaster.  If  Eric  enjoyed  a  good 
salary  and  a  responsible  position,  they  had  been  bought 
with  hard  work,  unsleeping  contrivance  and  two  severe  ill- 
nesses; the  instant  spectacular  effect  of  Lord  Byron's 
descent  upon  London  remained  a  day  dream. 

"You'll  be  able  to  find  some  one  to  take  on  my  room, 
won't  you?"  asked  Jack,  with  fleeting  compunction,  as  he 
reappeared  from  his  bedroom  in  shirt  and  trousers. 

"I  shan't  try,"  answered  Eric.  "My  books  are  overflow- 
ing into  every  room.  .  .  .  And  I  loathe  strangers  as  much 
as  you  do." 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  37 

Like  Jack,  he  had  soon  found  that  it  was  impossible  to 
play  on  equal  terms  with  men  who  did  not  pretend  to  work 
for  a  living;  and  Eric's  rare  excursions  from  the  Temple 
led  him  only  to  the  supper-table  of  the  Thespian  Club  and 
occasional  luncheons  in  Chelsea.  In  the  days  of  his  appren- 
ticeship to  the  London  News,  he  had  won  the  friendship 
of  Martin  Shelley  by  attending  first  nights  when,  as  hap- 
pened three  times  out  of  five,  the  dramatic  critic  was  indis- 
posed. For  ultimate  reward  he  succeeded  to  a  coveted  posi- 
tion; in  payment  by  instalments  he  received  a  careless  re- 
gard and  full-blooded  advice  on  drama  and  life.  When 
Shelley's  ill-used  brain  and  nerves  had  been  flogged  to 
activity  and  not  yet  drowned,  he  would  talk  of  theatrical  art 
as  a  master.  "Don't  forget  what  I'm  telling  you,  Lane,"  he 
would  say  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  whiskey  fumes. 
"I've  taught  you  what  construction  is — and  dialogue — and 
technique — and  characterization.  -You  could  write  a  suc- 
cessful play  to-morrow,  but  you  must  wait  until  you've 
filled  a  sketch-book  or  two.  You  don't  know  live  men  and 
women  yet;  you're  too  much  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen. 
The  public  isn't  ready  for  naturalism;  so,  if  you  want  to 
kill  theatricality — which  is  what  I've  tried  to  do  all  my 
life — you  must  do  it  with  a  play  that's  overwhelming.  I 
could  teach  you  a  hell  of  a  lot,  if  I  had  time.  .  .  .  When 
I'm  gone,  fire  in  your  application  for  my  berth  so  that  no 
one  else  gets  in  before  you  and  yet  leave  just  enough  mar- 
gin to  keep  the  old  man  from  thinking  you  pushed  me  un- 
der the  wheels.  Not  that  I'd  blame  you,  we've  all  got  to 
make  our  way.  But  the  old  man  finds  me  rather  an  asset. 
My  poor  wife  runs  teetotal  salons  in  Chelsea  on  the  strength 
of  my  name.  I'll  take  you  to  one.  You'll  fill  a  sketch-book 
with  society  smatterers  alone." 

Eric  went  from  courtesy  and  stayed  from  compassion. 
Mrs.  Shelley,  the  faded,  pretty  daughter  of  a  Cambridge 
tutor  who  had  left  her  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  threw  her- 


38  LADY  LILITH 

self  tacitly  on  his  mercy,  as  though  he  had  come  to  black- 
mail her  with  sordid  tales  of  her  husband's  degradation. 
They  had  no  children;  and  she  had  set  herself  to  make  a 
life  of  her  own.  So  long  as  she  could  fill  her  house  with 
the  North  Street  school  of  poets,  the  Fitzroy  Square  im- 
pressionists— and  all  who  came  humbly  to  her  for  a  chance 
of  meeting  them — she  shut  her  eyes  to  her  husband's  ex- 
cesses and  infidelities.  He  was  required  to  act  as  decoy  for 
new  literary  and  artistic  lions,  to  appear  at  one  party  out 
of  five  freshly  shaved  and  decently  habited,  to  lend  her  a 
hand  when  she  could  climb  no  longer  unaided  and  to  accept 
a  rare  invitation  in  return  to  lunch  with  Lady  Poynter  or 
the  Duchess  of  Ross,  when  "the  society  smatterers"  wanted 
him  to  write  up  a  charity  matinef  or  the  amateur  perform- 
ance of  a  Restoration  comedy. 

Before  and  after  her  husband's  unheroic  death  under  a 
newspaper  van,  Mrs.  Shelley  was  Eric's  single  link  with  the 
world  outside  Fleet  Street  and  the  Thespian  Club.  Jack's 
white  waist-coat  and  button-hole  were  occasionally  a  galling 
remainder  of  his  own  bondage. 

"God!  this  is  a  life!"  he  broke  out,  as  he  looked  at  the 
clock  and  brought  his  dinner  to  an  untimely  end.  "I  never 
dine  anywhere ;  I  don't  speak  to  a  woman  from  one  year's 
end  to  another " 

"Nor  do  I.  It  only  encourages  them,"  Jack  returned,  as 
he  filled  his  case  with  cigarettes  and  gave  a  final  polish  to 
his  hat. 

"It  would  bring  a  little  colour  into  one's  life,"  said  Eric, 
looking  with  disfavour  at  the  grimly  celibate  sitting-room, 

"Some  people  don't  know  when  they're  well  off.  I  can't 
dance  and  I've  nothing  to  say  to  the  modern  girl.  Why 
they  won't  take  'no'  for  an  answer  I  can  never  make  out. 
I  suppose  you  like  women,  Eric.  Every  time  you  go  to  a 
theatre,  you  come  back  raving  about  somebody's  dress  or 
pearls  or  eyes — honestly,  you  do !  It's  like  a  fashion  article. 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  39 

I'm  beyond  all  that.  I  don't  mind  'em  when  they're  as  old 
as  Lady  Knightrider;  they've  ceased  to  be  exacting  then, 
and  you  can  count  on  them  to  see  that  you're  comfortable 
and  that  you  have  plenty  of  bath-salts.  But  the  vulgar  little 
atrocities  of  nineteen!  I'm  not  ragging;  if  you  compare  a 
girl  like  my  sister  Agnes,  who's  twenty-two,  with  the  hoy- 
dens who  think  they  constitute  London  Society!  Brains  of 
spidgers  and  manners  of  factory  hands!  In  my  day  .  .  . 
However,  they're  all  pure  young  girlhood  to  you.  The 
Lord  preserve  you  in  your  innocence  and  keep  you  from 
marrying  one  of  them !  I  must  fly !" 

He  ran  down  the  stairs  and  hailed  a  taxi  at  the  top  of 
Middle  Temple  Lane.  Since  the  downfall  of  Draycott,  the 
Phoenix  Club  dinners  had  lost  their  old  strict  form  and 
were  no  longer  confined  to  members  of  the  club.  As  Jack 
entered  the  hall,  Valentine  Arden,  a  satirical  consumptive, 
was  divesting  himself  of  a  violet-lined  cloak,  smoothing  his 
long  straight  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  patting  the  tie 
that  wound  twice  round  his  collar  and  adjusting  the  straps 
of  his  trousers  under  his  insteps.  There  were  other  friends 
of  a  younger  generation  whom  Loring  had  acquired  in  his 
easy-going  progress,  but  the  older  members  were  meagrely 
represented. 

The  first  arrivals  were  already  in  the  library,  exchanging 
fragmentary  news  of  the  absentees,  when  their  host  ap- 
peared with  a  preoccupied  frown  and  a  jejune  apology  for 
his  lateness. 

"Where's  Pentyre?"  he  asked,  as  he  looked  round  the 
room.  "Here,  my  friend,  you'll  get  yourself  into  hot  water, 
if  you  give  any  more  parties  like  your  last  one." 

"What's  the  row  ?"  asked  Pentyre  in  surprise. 

"Well,  I  won't  mention  names,"  Loring  answered,  "but 
one  of  your  guests  has  come  to  grief  as  the  result  of  your 
last  little  gathering  at  Croxton:  I  don't  say  that  it's  your 
fault,"  he  added,  "except  that  you  ought  to  exercise  more 


40  LADY  LILITH 

general  control  in  your  own  house.  There  was  a  certain 
amount  of  gambling,  wasn't  there?  Some  fairly  big  sums 
of  money  changed  hands?  One  man  lost  who  couldn't 
afford  to  lose,  I  believe.  It  may  have  been  absence  of  mind 
or  it  may  have  been  the  only  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  but 
the  man  in  question  signed  his  father's  name  on  a  cheque 
instead  of  his  own.  The  son  is  now  on  his  way  to  one  of 
those  'thoughtful  islands  where  warrants  never  come.' 
D'you  mean  this  is  all  news  to  you?" 

Pentyre  tugged  at  his  moustache  and  shook  his  head  in 
wide-eyed  wonder.  The  only  sign  of  discord  that  he  could 
remember  had  occurred  between  his  mother  and  Loring's 
own  cousin,  Barbara  Neave.  On  the  first  night  she  had 
stayed  up  after  Lady  Pentyre  had  shepherded  the  women 
of  the  party  to  bed.  In  the  morning  there  had  been  a  gen- 
tle reprimand,  but  Lady  Barbara  ignored  it  and  persisted 
in  staying  up  as  long  as  any  one  would  stay  up  with  her. 
She  or  one  of  the  men — Pentyre  could  not  remember — had 
started  poker,  which  they  played  until  two  or  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning. 

"I've  never  heard  a  word  of  it,"  he  said.  Less  than  a 
year  had  passed  since  he  succeeded  to  his  father's  title  and 
the  ownership  of  Croxton  Hall.  The  social  life  of  the 
county  had  been  brightened ;  but  there  had  been  one  or  two 
regrettable  mishaps,  and  Loring  always  seemed  to  hear  of 
them.  "How  did  you  get  hold  of  the  story  ?"*he  asked  with 
a  touch  of  bluster. 

"From  the  man's  father  in  the  first  place;  then  from  my 
cousin  Barbara.  We're  supposed  to  be  responsible  for  her, 
and  I  tackled  her  about  it.  She  won  nearly  five  hundred 
pounds  from  this  wretched  boy.  Of  course,  I  made  her 
disgorge  it;  but  the  fellow  may  be  ruined  for  life.  I  told 
her  so  pretty  plainly,  and  she  seemed  to  take  it  as  an  enor- 
mous compliment." 

"Who  was  the  man?"  asked  Pentyre. 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  41 

"Well,  it  wasn't  your  fat  friend  Webster,  and  it  wasn't 
John  Gaymer;  they  played  poker  before  they  could  walk. 
I  think  you  can  guess  now.  Really,  Pentyre,  if  you  admit 
people  of  that  kind  to  your  house  .  .  .  That  girl  will  be 
the  death  of  my  poor  mother.  Thank  goodness,  Craw- 
leigh's  on  his  way  home!  D'you  know,  in  the  four  years 
we've  been  nominally  in  charge  of  her  we've  been  asked  to 
have  her  removed  from  three  different  schools?  Once  it 
was  for  holding  a  table-turning  seance  in  her  bedroom  after 
lights-out,  and  twice  simply  because  they  didn't  know  what 
to  do  with  her.  She's  a  holy  terror.  But  I've  got  rid  of 
her  now,  so  let's  have  some  dinner  and  forget  all  about  her." 

The  three-hour  discussion,  which  had  been  brought  to  an 
end  by  the  dressing-gong,  was  only  the  latest  of  a  long  suc- 
cession of  family  councils;  but  hitherto  Lady  Barbara  had 
split  the  court  of  enquiry  into  factions  and  escaped  between 
the  feet  of  the  disputants.  On  this,  as  on  earlier  occasions, 
she  had  won  over  her  two  aunts,  but  Loring  proved  himself 
to  be  of  sterner  stuff.  "It's  no  use  her  saying  that  it's  just 
as  if  she  hadn't  a  father  and  mother  of  her  own!  She 
has, — and  they'll  discover  it  to  their  cost,"  he  said.  "The 
immediate  point  is  that,  if  Barbara  stays  in  this  house,  I  go 
out  of  it.  She's  not  in  the  least  sorry.  You  think  she's  cry- 
ing, but  she  isn't.  I've  seen  her  do  that  a  dozen  times  when 
she  wants  to  get  round  the  servants.  It's  time  some  one  else 
had  a  turn  of  her.  .If  you  believe  in  her  repentance,  Aunt 
Kathleen,  you're  welcome  to  her."  While  he  dressed  for 
dinner,  the  girl's  clothes  were  packed  and  disposed  in  Lady 
Knightrider's  car.  She  herself  came  to  his  door  with  a  woe- 
begone face,  begging  him  to  forgive  her,  for  life  with  Lady 
Knightrider  involved  discipline,  religious  exercises  and  ban- 
ishment for  most  of  the  year  to  Scotland  or  Monmouth- 
shire. He  refused  and  felt  so  small-minded  at  using  his 
authority  against  a  child  that  it  was  a  relief  to  vent  his  ill- 
humour  on  a  man. 


42  LADY  LILITH 

"This  is  all  very  well,"  said  Pentyre  stolidly,  as  they  sat 
down  to  dinner,  "but  I  refuse  to  be  bully-ragged  because 
you  can't  keep  your  own  cousin  in  order." 

"I  can't  make  out  how  you  can  be  seen  in  the  same  street 
as  Webster  and  Gaymer,"  answered  Loring.  "To  me 
they're  everything  that's  wrong  in  the  life  of  the  pres- 
ent day.  Webster,  Pennington,  Lady  Maitland,  Erck- 
mann " 

"You're  so  infernally  narrow-minded." 

"If  it's  narrow-minded  to  dislike  a  noisy  little  clique  of 
rich  cads  who  try  to  dominate  society  by  being  one  degree 
more  outrageous  than  anybody  else." 

A  murmur  of  dissent  made  itself  heard;  but  Loring 
warmed  to.  his  work,  and  the  party  divided  into  two  camps 
and  joined  battle  over  the  bodies  of  their  friends.  It  was  a 
stimulating  encounter  and  afforded  unrestricted  opportu- 
nity for  personal  attack.  For  several  years  there  had  been 
raging  a  secret  warfare  which  Valentine  Arden  compared 
with  a  tournament  in  a  dark  room  between  blindfolded 
combatants  who  did  not  know  why  they  were  fighting.  On 
the  one  side  was  a  group  of  influential  and  highly  respected 
families  led  by  the  Lorings,  the  Knightriders  and  the  Peb- 
bleridges,  on  the  other  the  cosmopolitans.  They  were  an 
ill-defined  host  without  leader  or  tenets.  In  every  other 
capital  of  the  world  they  had  found  their  place  as  a  wealthy 
and  cultured  class,  excluded  from  the  houses  of  the  historic 
aristocracy  but  forming  an  artistic  aristocracy  of  their  own. 
In  Paris,  Vienna  and  New  York  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann  was  a 
social  power ;  he  would  not,  indeed,  be  found  with  the  Prin- 
cesse  de  Brise  or  Mrs.  Irwin  T.  Churton,  but  he  was  known 
and  reverenced  in  a  world  of  music  and  pictures  which  did 
not  know  Mrs.  Irwin  T.  Churton  or  the  Princesse  de  Brise 
by  name. 

In  England  there  were  no  such  recognizable  lines  of 
demarcation.  Erckmann  was  received  by  the  Duchess  of 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  43 

Ross,  because  she  wanted  him  to  subsidise  a  French  theatre 
for  London  and  hoped  that  he  might  be  induced  to  take 
Herrig  on  a  long  lease;  he  was  blackballed  for  the  County 
Club,  because  the  committee  disliked  his  race,  his  accent, 
his  friends  and  his  too  frequent  appearance  in  the  Divorce 
Court.  With  one  foot  in  a  Promised  Land,  from  which  the 
society  of  Paris,  Vienna  and  New  York  had  excluded  him, 
Sir  Adolf  lifted  the  second ;  it  was  at  this  point  that  the 
battle  was  joined,  and  both  sides  fought  blindly.  The  cos- 
mopolitans were  not  always  fortunate  in  their  manners  or 
their  allies ;  and  to  Loring  their  very  toleration  meant  the 
invasion  of  society  by  "a  noisy  clique  of  rich  cads."  Their 
antagonists  were  no  less  unfortunate  in  a  few  of  their  preju- 
dices; and  the  cosmopolitans  claimed  with  some  reason  to 
be  fighting  against  a  Philistine  oligarchy.  As  there  was  not 
even  a  common  ground  of  dispute,  the  warfare  degenerated 
into  indecisive  skirmishes,  and  the  discussion  of  it  into  em- 
bittered personalities. 

"They're  a  bit  hairy  about  the  heel,"  said  Summertown, 
"but  they  are  alive,  and  some  of  their  shows  are  great  fun. 
Val  can  bear  me  out." 

Arden  assumed  non-moral  detachment  and  explained  that 
the  novelist,  like  the  sanitary  inspector,  entered  all  houses 
with  professional  impartiality. 

"They've  no  sense  of  responsibility  and  not  much  feeling 
for  decency.  I  don't  want  to  make  too  much  of  this  busi- 
ness," said  Loring,  as  acrimony  slipped  out  of  control  and 
threatened  the  peace  of  the  dinner.  "But  I  was  thoroughly 
stirred  up  over  that  wretched  boy  and  I  felt  it  was  time  to 
make  a  stand." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  demanded  Pentyre. 

"Well,  I've  been  knocking  about  in  London  for  half  a 
dozen  years,  watching  these  gentry,  and  I  can  see  that  we're 
not  assimilating  them.  The  egregious  Pennington,  that 
young  swine  Webster " 


44  LADY  LILITH 

"Both  of  whom  I've  met  in  this  house,"  interposed  Pen- 
tyre. 

"I  know.  One  gets  roped  in.  Some  one  dragged  me 
along  to  their  parties,  so  I  had  to  invite  them  back.  But  I 
don't  go  any  more.  The  danger  now  is  that  they'll  assimi- 
late us.  I  went  through  my  mother's  book  a  short  time  ago 
and  put  a  mark  against  certain  names ;  and  in  future  those 
people  will  not  be  invited  or  admitted  to  the  house.  No 
doubt  they'll  get  on  very  happily  without  me,  but  so  much 
mud  is  thrown  at  us  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business  that  I 
can't  afford  to  put  up  gratuitous  targets  for  the  amusement 
of  the  gutter-press.  Honestly,  Pentyre,  you'd  feel  rather 
small,  if  the  Sunday  Budget  or  Morton's  Weekly  came  out 
with  a  'Society  Gambling  Scandal.'  Wouldn't  you?" 

Pentyre  adroitly  evaded  the  question  and  continued  his 
own  bombardment. 

"Is  your  cousin's  name  in  the  condemned  list  ?"  he  asked. 

"It  will  be,  if  I  have  any  trouble  from  her  again.  What 
I  can't  get  people  to  see  is  that  we're  hanging  on  by  our 
eyelids  to  such  position  as  we've  got.  A  hundred  years  ago 
we  were  a  class  apart  and  above  criticism;  nobody  thought 
the  worse  of  us,  if  we  appeared  at  the  theatre  with  a  no- 
torious cocotte  or  drank  ourselves  gently  under  the  table. 
Our  present  accursed  democracy  was  unborn.  But,  when 
once  that  came  into  existence,  we  could  only  keep  ourselves 
from  proscription  by  saying  very  loudly  that  we  were  still 
a  class  apart  and  were  setting  a  standard.  Democracy's  too 
lazy  and  snob-ridden  to  be  very  exacting,  but  it's  had  its 
eye  on  us.  George  and  his  friends  are  conspiring  to  ham- 
string the  poor,  decent  House  of  Lords;  and,  if  they  suc- 
ceed, the  rot  won't  stop  there.  I  find  life  very  pleasant,  and 
it  isn't  worth  a  tremendous  upheaval  simply  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  behaving  like  a  Bank  Holiday  crowd.  .  .  .  Let's 
go  and  smoke  in  the  library." 

Under  the  tranquilling  influence  of  tobacco,  Loring  re- 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  45 

covered  his  good-humour  and  the  controversy  flickered  to 
extinction.  There  was  a  short  attempt  to  revive  and  ex- 
plore the  scandal  of  Croxton  Hall,  but  Pentyre  was  secretly 
frightened  by  the  possibility  of  seeing  his  name  in  the  papers ; 
and  he  knew  from  long  experience  that  there  was  no  surer 
way  of  achieving  notoriety  than  that  of  telling  anything  in 
confidence  to  those  of  his  friends  whose  social  importance 
was  measured  by  their  range  and  freshness  of  gossip. 

"You're  too  provoking !"  Deganway  protested  shrilly,  pin- 
ning him  in  an  embrasure  and  flapping  irritably  with  his 
eye-glass.  "You  know  it's  not  fair  to  tell  a  story  without 
giving  all  the  names." 

"I  didn't  tell  the  story,"  Pentyre  pointed  out. 

"But  I've  asked  Jim,  and  he  won't  say.  Val!  Do  make 
him  tell !  He's  being  so  tiresome." 

Arden  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  with  the  outward 
frozen  detachment  which  had  become  second  nature  to  him, 
retired  to  a  table  by  himself  where  he  called  for  China  tea 
and  produced  a  pack  of  patience  cards.  There  were  other 
means  of  investigating  the  poker  episode,  and  he  had  de- 
cided that  it  was  more  than  time  for  the  social  satirist  to 
make  Barbara  Neave's  acquaintance.  For  the  merits  of  the 
controversy  he  cared  nothing,  but  his  sense  of  humour  was 
maliciously  stirred  in  contemplation  of  a  self-consciously 
decorous  clan  stung  into  undignified  curvettings  by  a  gadfly 
girl  of  sixteen.  Though  he  ostentatiously  refused  to  be 
drawn  into  partisanship,  the  stiff  blamelessness  of  the  inter- 
loqked  Catholic  families  occasionally  oppressed  him;  and 
the  material  outcome  of  Loring's  tirade  was  to  stimulate  his 
desire  to  explore  the  domestic  dissension  at  first  hand. 

"One  feels  that  Lady  Barbara  would  repay  study,"  he  ob- 
served to  Jack,  as  they  left  the  house  together.  "She  is  a 
new  element  in  our  worn-out  social  system." 

"You  must  study  her  for  me,"  answered  Jack.  "I  agree 
with  every  word  Jim  said.  I'm  too  busy  to  go  out  much, 


46  LADY  LILITH 

but  some  of  the  people  I  meet  .  .  .  My  father  says  that 
twenty  years  ago  they  wouldn't  have  been  tolerated.  But 
since  the  South  African  diamond  boom  and  all  the  new 
money  ...  Of  course,  the  girl  just  wants  slapping." 

"You  have  met  her?  No?  One  hoped  that  you  would 
have  effected  the  introduction." 

"I  avoid  the  present-day  girl  like  the  plague,"  said  Jack. 

The  following  afternoon  Arden  called  in  South  Street 
with  a  book  which,  he  assured  Lady  Knightrider,  he  had 
promised  to  lend  her.  Lady  Barbara  was  at  Hurlingham 
with  Webster;  but,  as  she  was  expected  back  to  tea,  he 
planted  himself  immovably  in  a  chair  and  awaited  her  re- 
turn. When  at  last  she  came,  he  found  her  utterly  unlike 
the  rebellious  school-girl  of  his  imagination.  A  childhood 
spent  in  public  had  matured  her  beyond  her  years  so  that 
she  had  the  looks  of  twenty-two  and  the  self-possession  of 
forty.  Instead  of  studying  her,  he  found  himself  being 
studied;  slender  and  lithe  as  a  boy,  she  was  tall  enough  to 
look  down  on  him.  He  found  her  haggard  with  restlessness 
and  a  life  of  nervous  excitement ;  her  tired  eyes,  ever  chang- 
ing in  size  and  colour,  brightened  as  she  took  in  his  affec- 
tations of  dress  and  mannerisms  of  speech ;  he  felt  that  she 
was  harmonizing  her  pose  with  his  and  that  her  vitality  and 
quickness  had  already  given  her  an  advantage. 

"I've  read  all  your  books.  Witty,  but  very  artificial," 
she  said,  as  they  were  introduced.  "The  French  do  that 
sort  of  thing  more  easily,  but  you've  not  read  much  French, 
have  you  ?  There  are  several  things  I  want  to  discuss  with 
you.  A  play  I've  written."  She  drew  off  her  gloves  jerkily, 
splitting  the  thumb  of  one.  "Did  you  come  to  see  me  or 
Aunt  Kathleen?  And  you  know  Jim,  of  course.  I  want 
your  opinion  of  him." 

"He  knows  me,"  Arden  distinguished,  as  he  watched  her 
carelessly  calculated  movements.  Within  sixty  seconds  she 
had  shewn  herself  full-face  and  in  profile,  with  a  hat  and 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  47 

again  with  two  tapering  hands  smoothing  a  mass  of  way- 
ward hair.  He  had  seen  her  wistful  and  tired,  as  she  came 
into  the  room,  and  again  alert  and  galvanised  at  finding  him 
there.  Yet  she  had  certainly  noticed  his  hat  in  the  hall ; 
probably  she  had  read  the  name  and  thouglrt  out  her  attack 
as  she  came  upstairs.  He  was  charmed  by  her  conscien- 
tious artifice. 

"You  talk  just  like  Fatty  Webster's  imitations  of  you! 
That's  so  clever  of  you!  But  why  do  you  do  it?  You've 
arrived.  There's  no  need  to  be  eccentric  now.  But  per- 
haps you've  grown  into  your  own  pose  ?  In  that  case  you're 
right  to  express  yourself  in  your  own  medium.  Life  is  sim- 
ply self-expression,  isn't  it?  The  discovery  of  the  Ego,  the 
refinement  of  the  Ego,  the  presentation  of  the  Ego."  She 
nodded  quickly  at  a  portrait  of  her  father  in  Garter  robes. 
"It  would  never  do  to  be  submerged  by  that  kind  of  thing. 
I'm  always  so  sorry  for  Royalty." 

As  he  hesitated  for  an  answer,  she  put  her  hands  to  her 
throat,  unclapsed  her  necklace  and  threw  it  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Arden  sprang  across  the  room  and  looked  down  into 
the  street  to  make  sure  that  he  had  seen  aright.  A  District 
Messenger-boy  approached,  whistling;  he  explored  the 
necklace  with  his  foot  and  finally  picked  it  up. 

"My  dear,  what  are  you  doing?"  cried  Lady  Knightrider 
in  amazement. 

"I  went  flying  to-day,"  Lady  Barbara  answered,  as  she 
poured  herself  out  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Flying!" 

"Yes,  I  didn't  tell  you  beforehand,  because  I  was  afraid 
of  a  scene.  Besides,  I  should  have  done  it,  whatever  you 
said.  Johnnie  Gaymer  promised  to  take  me  up.  I  haven't 
been  near  Hurlingham.  Don't  bother,  Mr.'  Arden." 

"But  why ?"  Valentine  began,  startled  out  of  his  in- 
vertebrate placidity  by  a  sensationalist  more  original  than 
himself. 


48  LADY  LILITH 

"Because  I  wasn't  killed.  I  love  that  necklace  more  than 
anything  in  the  world.  It  was  given  me  when  I  was  recov- 
ering from  typhoid  and  every  one  thought  I  must  die.  .  .  r 
The  engine  stopped  in  mid-air,  and  I  made  sure  I  was  going 
to  be  killed.  Johnnie  thought  so,  too.  I  felt  I  owed  some- 
thing to  Nemesis.  .  .  .  I've  known  you  by  sight  all  this 
season,  Mr.  Arden.  You  weren't  at  the  Poynters  last  night, 
by  any  chance?  I  couldn't  go,  because  I  was  in  disgrace. 
And  Lord  Poynter  sent  his  car  this  morning  with  a  wreath 
of  lilies,  because  he  was  afraid  I  must  be  dead." 

The  short,  disjointed  sentences,  flung  out  rapidly  as  she 
helped  herself  to  cake,  demanded  all  Arden's  attention  and 
left  her  aunt  far  behind.  Lady  Knightrider  hurried  belat- 
edly to  the  window  and  then  stretched  her  hand  to  the  bell. 
Lady  Barbara  took  her  arm  soothingly  and  led  her  back  to 
her  chair. 

"Your  disgrace  was  our  diversion,"  said  Arden. 

"Did  Jim  tell  you  about  it,"  asked  Lady  Barbara.  "How 
like  him !  I'm  beginning  to  think  he's  naturally  cruel.  Or 
unnaturally.  Conscious  cruelty  is  what  divides  men  from 
animals.  .  .  .  Aunt  Kathleen,  if  you  fuss,  I  shall  scream; 
I've  been  badly  frightened  and  I  hated  throwing  it 
away.  .  .  .  I'd  sooner  die  than  hurt  any  one.  .  .  .  Have 
you  ever  flown  ?  I've  wanted  to  for  years ;  I  felt  it  would 
be  a  new  sensation.  Won't  it  be  awful  when  we've  done  so 
much  that  there  are  no  sensations  left?  Aunt  Kathleen's 
quite  irrepressible,  isn't  she?" 

After  an  interval  of  indecision  Lady  Knightrider  had 
hurried  out  of  the  room  and  downstairs.  Arden  looked  at 
his  watch  and  prepared  to  follow  her. 

"One  always  lies  down  before  dinner,"  he  explained. 

"You're  going — just  when  we've  been  left  a  moment  to- 
gether ?"  she  asked  with  a  smile  that  had  less  of  amusement 
than  of  artistic  sympathy.  "That's  a  brilliant  effect.  Not 
one  man  in  a  million  would  have  thought  of  it.  We  must 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  49 

meet  again.  Why  did  you  come  at  all?  What  had  you 
heard  about  me?  I  don't  recommend  Aunt  Kathleen's 
cigarettes." 

She  offered  him  her  case,  and  Arden  lighted  one. 

"A  poker  party  was  mentioned  at  dinner  last  night,"  he 
told  her.  "One  casually  wondered  who  the  man  was." 

"Claude  Arkwright.  Jim  says  I've  got  his  soul  on  my 
conscience.  Any  more  questions  ?" 

Arden  laughed  and  for  a  moment  shed  all  his  manner- 
isms. 

"Yes.    What's  behind  all  this?"  he  asked. 

"All  this  what?  All  this  me?  What  I  do?"  Lady  Bar- 
bara met  him  unreservedly  on  fiis  own  chosen  ground  of 
sincerity,  and  her  voice  and  smile  changed.  "I'm  behind  it. 
Come,  you're  quite  clever  enough  to  understand.  I  want 
to  enjoy  life  and  know  life  and  meet  people  and  read  books 
and  do  things.  ...  I  won't  be  treated  like  a  minor  Eoyalty. 
The  world's  full  of  Jim  Lorings.  Wherever  I  go,  some  one 
says  'Not  there,  not  there,  my  child.'  And  then !  Then  I  go 
quite  mad !  You'll  like  me,  I  think.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Lilith." 

"Lilith?    Who  was  she?    Wasn't  she  Adam's  first  wife?" 

"She  existed  before  Man  tasted  of  the  tree  of  knowledge ; 
before  good  and  evil  came  into  the  world,"  said  Arden  im- 
pressively. 

"/  remember.  I  hope  you  won't  become  sententious. 
That  went  out  with  the  last  of  the  Wilde  plays." 

Lady  Knightrider  was  standing  in  the  hall,  plump,  white- 
haired  and  perplexed,  peering  through  her  lorgnettes  into 
the  street.  The  messenger-boy  had  disappeared,  and  the 
necklace  with  him. 

"He  will  take  it  to  Scotland  Yard,"  predicted  Arden  re- 
assuringly. "And  then  Lady  Barbara  will  throw  it  away 
again  for  fear  of  cheating  Nemesis.  One  despaired  of 
meeting  honest  superstition  in  these  degenerate  latter  days." 


50  LADY  LILITH 

"I've  never  heard ,"  began  Lady  Knightrider.  One 

crime  jostled  another  and  confused  her  mind.  "Crawleigh 
will  be  furious  if  he  finds  out  she's  been  flying." 

Arden  walked  back  to  the  Ritz,  wondering  whether  the 
fuller  study  of  Barbara  Neave  justified  him  in  giving  away 
points  by  betraying  interest  in  her.  His  preliminary  diag- 
nosis discovered  energy  with  no  outlet,  premature  expe- 
rience with  unsated  curiosity;  public  life  held  no  mystery  or 
attraction  for  the  only  daughter  of  a  viceroy;  unless  Lord 
Crawleigh  set  himself  to  gain  a  dukedom,  there  were 
no  social  heights  to  scale;  the  family  was  too  rich  for  her 
to  be  troubled  about  money ;  and  so  energy  sought  its  outlet 
in  making  and  receiving  new  sensations.  This  was  well 
enough  at  sixteen  or  seventeen,  but  after  another  five  years 
emotion-hunting  .  .  .  ?  He  was  still  undecided  when  he  en- 
countered her  a  week  later  at  Covent  Garden,  sitting  with 
Summertown  and  Webster  on  a  sofa  outside  Lady  Mait- 
land's  box  and  having  her  fortune  told  by  Sonia  Dainton. 
Her  setting  was  of  more  interest  than  her  occupation,  for 
Summertown  and  Miss  Dainton  were  leaders  of  the  younger 
cavalry  in  the  cosmopolitan  army;  they  echoed  the  noise 
and  reflected  the  insistent  glare  of  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann 
without  sharing  his  solid  prestige  as  a  critic  and  patron  of 
art.  Webster  was  a  sodden,  characterless  youth,  who 
bought  his  way  into  toleration  which  he  mistook  for  popu- 
larity. Arden  wondered  what  Loring  would  say  if  he 
found  his  cousin  in  such  company. 

"The  discovery  of  the  Ego  ?"  he  enquired. 

"Hullo !  We're  having  such  fun !"  said  Lady  Barbara. 
"Miss  Dainton's  wonderful !  I've  had  two  bad  illnesses,  and 
something  is  going  to  happen  soon  which  will  change  the 
whole  of  my  life.  I'm  going  to  have  an  enormous  success 
of  some  kind.  And  then  an  enormous  tragedy.  I'm  very 
artistic  and  full  of  intuition.  I've  got  a  strong  will  and  a 
great  influence  over  people.  Go  on,  Sonia." 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  51 

"The  line  of  heart — give  me  your  other  hand  a  min- 
ute," said  Sonia  Dainton.  "Yes,  the  line  of  heart  hasn't 
begun  yet.  When  it  daesl" 

Lady  Barbara  withdrew  her  hand  abruptly. 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  anything  about  it,  Sonia.  Are 
there  any  good  palmists  in  London,  Mr.  Arden?  I  collect 
fortune-tellers.  Let's  go  somewhere  to-morrow.  Father 
will  be  back  in  England  next  month,  and  then  I  shan't  be 
able  to  do  anything." 

"You  believe  in  all  this?"  Arden  asked,  remembering  her 
action  with  the  necklace  and  wondering  how  far  she  was 
trying  to  beat  him  at  his  own  game  of  extravagant  effects. 

"Oh,  implicitly.  Don't  you?  And  I  do  want  to  find  out 
all  about  the  future.  Let's  devote  a  week  to  it  and  try 
every  one" 

"I  might  spare  you  two  days,"  he  answered,  as  he  passed 
on  to  his  box. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  Arden's  curiosity  was  satisfied. 
Lady  Barbara  was  a  study  in  crude  contrasts.  While  she 
pained  her  family  by  sceptical  indifference  to  religion,  there 
seemed  nothing  that  she  would  not  believe,  provided  only 
that  it  did  not  come  to  her  from  the  lips  of  a  priest.  As 
they  drove  from  one  clairvoyant  to  another,  she  revealed  a 
curious  knowledge  of  necromancy ;  she  had  read  every  book 
that  she  could  find  on  Satanism  and  the  Black  Mass  and 
would  talk  of  astrology  and  the  significance  of  dreams  with 
grave  conviction.  But  the  cult  of  the  fortune-tellers  was 
inspired  primarily  by  a  desire  to  discuss  herself  and  to  be 
discussed.  A  single  morning  exhausted  the  possibilities  of 
amusement  from  such  a  source,  and  her  companions  were 
less  diverting  than  herself ;  Sonia  Dainton  dropped  out  when 
she  found  herself  accorded  second  place,  Summertown 
played  a  thin  stream  of  monotonous  jocosity  over  the  sur- 
vivors, and  Webster  fell  asleep  with  an  air  of  duty  well 
done  when  he  had  provided  luncheon  for  every  one,  discov- 


?52  LADY  LILITH 

ered  a  new  clairvoyant  and  driven  the  party  to  her  at  break- 
neck speed  in  the  latest  of  the  racing  cars  whose  purchase 
constituted  the  overt  business  of  his  life. 

They  were  to  have  met  again  with  Lady  Knightrider  at 
the  end  of  the  season ;  but,  when  Arden  and  Jack  Waring 
entered  the  train  for  Raglan,  Loring  awaited  them  with  a 
grave  face  and  pointed  to  a  column  notice  in  his  paper, 
headed  "Serious  Flying  Accident." 

"Thank  Heaven,  it  happened  when  she  was  with  her  peo- 
ple and  not  with  me,"  he  began.  "That's  my  silly  little  fool 
of  a  cousin  again!  She  got  that  fellow  Gaymer  down  to 
Crawleigh  Abbey;  and,  when  her  parents'  backs  were 
turned,  they  went  off  for  a  jaunt  to  Salisbury  Plain.  The 
manoeuvres  were  on,  so  they  brightened  them  up  by  flying 
so  low  that  the  inspecting  general  bolted  and  the  troops 
scattered  in  panic.  There'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  for  that 
alone.  Then,  on  the  way  back,  they  came  down  in  the 
New  Forest  and  got  hung  up  on  a  tree.  Gaymer's  broken 
a  collar-bone  and  two  ribs ;  and  Barbara's  badly  shaken  and 
bruised.  Here's  an  opportunity  for  your  literary  genius, 
Valentine;  help  me  to  draft  a  telegram  of  sympathy  which 
will  shew  at  the  same  time  that  I  think  she  richly  deserved 
all  she  got." 

The  accident  was  Lady  Barbara's  formal  introduction  to 
England.  Throughout  1909  there  was  an  official  pretence 
that  she  was  not  yet  out;  she  would  still  be  no  more  than 
seventeen  when  her  parents  returned,  and  both  Lady  Loring 
and  Lady  Knightrider  refused  to  present  her  before  that. 
The  baptism  of  blood  in  the  New  Forest  made  her  name 
and  face  known  to  every  reader  of  every  illustrated  paper. 
"The  ideal  debut  for  her,"  exclaimed  Loring  in  disgust.  "I 
can  see  her  spending  the  rest  of  her  life  trying  to  live  up 
to  it." 

Four  days  later  he  came  into  Arden's  room  with  a  letter 
which  he  threw  onto  the  bed  with  a  grim  smile. 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  53 

"Dearest  Jim, 

"It  was  sweet  of  you  to  send  me  that  wire.  I've  strained 
my  back  and  covered  myself  with  bruises,  but  it  was  worth 
it.  Fear  is  a  wonderful  sensation;  I  believe  it's  the  strongest 
of  all  the  emotions.  I  certainly  feel  tJiat  I  shall  never  again 
get  that  sublimated  degree  of  fear.  I  got  Death.  (D'you 
spell  Death  with  a  capital  D?  I  always  do — from  respect; 
Death  will  outlast  God.)  You  heard  I  had  concussion?  I 
knew  I  was  dying  and,  that  one  step  would  carry  me  over 
the  dividing-line.  There  was  a  black  curtain,  like  a  drop- 
scene;  and  I  knew  tliat,  as  soon  as  that  lifted,  I  should  be 
dead  and  on  the  other  side.  I  said  to  myself  I  wouldn't 
die.  When  I  came  to,  the  doctor  was  frozvning  terribly, 
and  I  heard  him  mutter,  'Just  about  twne,  too,  young  lady.' 
I  wonder  whether  you'd  be  sorry,  if  I  died,  Jim.  When  1 
had  appendicitis  at  Simla,  you  couldn't  get  through  the 
streets  for  the  people  who  were  waiting  to  hear  how  the 
operation  had  gone  off.  The  wires  were  blocked  for  three 
days  with  enquiries. 

"I'm  to  be  allowed  out  at  the  end  of  the  week  and  hope 
to  be  well  enough  to  come  to  you  at  House  of  Steynes  with 
father  and  mother.  Your  loving  Barbara." 

Arden  smiled  as  he  handed  back  the  letter. 

"Characteristic,"  he  commented. 

"Oh,  very!  Not  a  word  about  Gaymer.  Or  the  feel- 
ings of  her  parents.  She's  had  two  new  sensations  and  she 
can't  be  sure  whether  she'd  get  as  good  a  press  for  her 
death  here  as  in  India.  Crawleigh  will  have  his  hands  full. 
You've  not  met  him?  Well,  it's  one  thing  to  govern  India 
and  another  to  keep  a  little  devil  like  that  in  order." 

A  month  later,  still  in  the  detached  spirit  of  the  social 
satirist,  Arden  allowed  himself  to  be  introduced  to  Lady 
Barbara's  parents  in  Scotland.  He  was  anxious  to  study  her 
family  setting,  for  Lord  Crawleigh  was  already  beginning 


54  LADY  LILITH 

to  be  regarded  primarily  as  the  father  of  his  own  daughter 
and  only  in  afterthought  as  a  distinguished  public  servant. 
Fifteen  years  earlier  he  had  first  shewn  the  administrative 
brilliance  and  incapacity  to  work  with  colleagues  which  im- 
pel a  man  to  a  viceroyalty  or  the  leadership  of  a  disgruntled 
party  of  one  on  the  cross-benches.  In  Canada,  in  Ireland 
and  in  India  he  had  been  publicly  admired  and  privately 
abhorred.  Without  the  backing  of  long  established  author- 
ity, however,  he  was  thrown  on  his  own  resources ;  and 
paper-work  genius  proved  itself  powerless  without  palpable 
force  of  character.  Over-sensitive  to  his  personal  dignity, 
he  treated  his  wife  and  children  with  the  pomp  and  despot- 
ism of  Government  House;  according  to  Loring's  descrip- 
tion, councils  were  convened  to  decide  what  train  should 
bear  them  from  London  to  Crawleigh  Abbey;  the  cook's 
shortcomings  were  minuted  to  Lady  Crawleigh  for  observa- 
tions and  appropriate  action ;  the  servants  were  pinned  to  the 
straight  path  of  their  duties  by  proclamation,  and  the  house- 
hold books  were  scrutinized  with  an  exhaustive  particularity 
not  vouchsafed  to  the  preparation  of  an  Indian  budget. 

It  was  the  self-protective  assertion  of  a  man  sensitive  to 
his  physical  inadequacy.  Lord  Crawleigh's  domed  head, 
ascetic  face  and  rimless  spectacles  were  impressively  intel- 
lectual, but  he  degenerated  as  he  went  lower.  The  bottom 
half  of  his  face  was  confused .  with  a  straggling  blonde 
moustache  intended  for  an  operatic  viking;  his  body  was 
too  short,  his  legs  too  long;  and,  when  he  became  excited, 
his  voice  rose  querulous  and  shrill.  But  the  viceregal  man- 
ner carried  him  far.  Lord  Neave  and  his  two  younger 
brothers  had  been  taught  obedience  at  Eton;  Lady  Craw- 
leigh, as  her  passivity  and  plumpness  hinted,  suffered  from 
a  family  streak  of  laziness,  which  she  shared  with  Lady 
Loring  and  Lady  Knightrider,  and  from  twenty-five  years' 
experience  of  her  husband,  which  she  could  share  with  no 
one.  It  required  Barbara's  temperamental  irreverence  and 


55 

gipsy  craving  for  liberty  to  break  down  the  imposing  forms 
and  spirit  of  her  father's  rule.  The  boys,  who  could  be 
caned  while  she  remained  immune,  sheltered  themselves 
behind  their  younger  sister;  and,  with  a  woman's  genius 
for  tactical  alliances  and  strategical  choice  of  ground,  she 
explored  and  profited  by  the  weak  places  in  the  enemy's  sys- 
tem of  defences.  Her  father's  public  position  and  private  dig- 
nity were  her  strongest  accessories.  "She  can  ayways  black- 
mail him  by  threatening  a  scandal,"  as  Loring  explained. 

So  long  as  she  had  her  own  way,  Arden  discovered  a  rule 
of  peace  and  mutual  affection.  Lady  Barbara  hated  to  be  on 
bad  terms  with  any  one ;  and  her  parents  were  humanly,  if 
reluctantly,  proud  of  her.  Throughout  his  visit  to  House  of 
Steynes,  she  dominated  the  party  by  her  vitality  and  versa- 
tile charm.  Loring  was  in  the  early  stages  of  devotion  to 
Sonia  Dainton  and  disappeared  as  long  and  often  as  possible 
to  escape  his  mother  and  sister,  who  were  trying  to  avert 
an  engagement,  and  Lady  Dainton,  who  was  forcing  it  to  a 
head ;  and  in  his  absence  Arden  watched  Lady  Barbara  pos- 
ing herself  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  methodically  sharing 
herself  among  the  guests  and  holding  her  own  with  all.  It 
was  the  fruit  of  early  years,  during  which  she  had  lived 
consistently  in  public,  meeting  men  of  every  profession  and 
country,  listening,  remembering,  learning  and  giving  her 
best  in  return.  She  shewed  a  nice  appreciation  of  person- 
ality and  varied  her  attitude  with  her  audience.  In  talking 
to  Arden  himself  she  still  gravely  met  pose  with  pose  and 
extravagance  with  extravagance. 

"D'you  feel  you  know  me  adequately  now?"  she  asked 
him  on  the  last  night.  "Mr.  Deganway  told  me  you  were 
going  to  write  a  book  about  me." 

"And  you  replied,  'Only  one?'  It  is  unfortunate  that 
Meredith  has  already  taken  'The  Egoist'  as  a  title." 

Lady  Barbara  turned  slowly,  as  though  he  were  a  mirror, 
and  gave  him  time  to  appreciate  her  slender  height  and  lithe 


56  LADY  LILITH 

figure.  One  hand  directed  attention  to  her  hair,  as  she 
brushed  away  a  curl  from  her  forehead;  and  she  looked  at 
him  sideways  with  her  fingers  pressed  against  one  cheek  so 
that  he  should  see  the  size  and  deep  colour  of  her  eyes. 

"D'you  think  I'm  unduly  vain  ?"  she  asked. 

"Genius  demands  vanity.  But  one  comes  back  to  the  old 
question:  what  is  behind  it?  One  thinks  of  you  in  six 
years'  time  and  asks  oneself  what  will  be  left.  You  have 
been  everywhere,  Lady  Lilith,  and  met  every  one  whom  the 
world  considers  worth  meeting — they  were  not  too  numer- 
ous ?  No  ? — and  you  have  read  so  much.  ...  In  six  years' 
time  you  will  be  the  best  known  woman  in  London,  but 
there  will  be  nothing  left  for  you  to  do." 

"There  are  always  new  experiences.  When  I  had  that 
accident  in  the  New  Forest,  a  man  came  from  the  other  end 
of  England,  because  he'd  fallen  in  love  with  my  photograph. 
He  said  he  couldn't  marry  any  one  else  after  seeing  me." 

"It  is  surfeiting  to  be  easily  loved,"  Arden  sighed.  "One 
does  not  shoot  sitting  birds.  Some  day,  perhaps,  Lady 
Lilith  will  meet  a  man  who  goes  to  the  other  end  of  Eng- 
land to  avoid  her.  That  will  be  a  new  experience.  She  will 
follow  him,  of  course.  To  find  a  heart  will  be  the  greatest  ex- 
perience of  all.  One  will  watch  your  career  with  interest." 

"And  describe  it?  Or  are  you  afraid  to  risk  my  friend- 
ship?" 

"The  only  book  that  could  offend  Lady  Lilith  is  one  in 
which  she  does  not  appear."  , 

For  the  next  six  months  Arden  was  compelled  to  study 
her  through  the  press.  Loring  went  abroad  for  the  winter 
in  his  yacht,  Lady  Knightrider  withdrew  to  Scotland,  and 
Lord  Crawleigh  moved  his  seat  of  government  from  Berke- 
ley Square  to  Hampshire.  Despite  the  rival  claims  of  a 
general  election,  however,  she  secured  creditable  space  in 
the  daily  and  weekly  papers.  A  ball  at  Crawleigh  Abbey 
was  followed  by  an  abortive  rumour  of  her  engagement  to 
her  cousin  Lord  John  Carstairs.  A  prompt  and  unambig- 


THE  COMING  OF  LILITH  57 

uous  disclaimer  was  issued,  but  the  findings  of  the  commis- 
sion, which  Lord  Crawleigh  appointed  under  his  own  chair- 
manship to  investigate  his  daughter's  conduct,  were  such 
that  he  deemed  it  prudent  to  transfer  his  seat  of  govern- 
ment from  Hampshire  to  Cap  Martin.  A  series  of  photo- 
graphs from  the  Riviera  correspondent  of  the  'Catch' 
shewed  her  walking  demurely  with  her  father,  playing  ten- 
nis and  participating  less  demurely  in  a  battle  of  flowers 
and  a  fancy-dress  carnival. 

In  the  spring  of  1910  public  interest  was  deflected  to 
another  branch  of  the  family,  for  Loring's  engagement  to 
Sonia  Dainton  was  announced.  But  by  that  time,  as  Arden 
pointed  out,  a  man  had  only  himself  to  blame  if  he  did  not 
know  all  that  was  to  be  known  of  Lady  Barbara  Neave. 

"How  poor  Jim  must  loathe  all  this  self -advertising," 
said  Jack  Waring,  when  he  met  Arden  at  the  County  Club 
to  discuss  the  engagement.  "I've  never  even  seen  her,  but 
I've  had  her  and  her  hats  and  her  clothes  thrust  under  my 
eyes  by  these  infernal  papers  till  I'm  sick  of  them.  She's 
talented,  she's  charming.  I  know  all  the  things  she  said  to 
all  the  big  pots  in  India.  When  she  is  twenty-one  she  comes 
in  for  all  her  godfather's  money  on  condition  that  she  mar- 
ries a  Catholic.  ...  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  public  for 
this  kind  of  stuff,  or  the  papers  wouldn't  print  it ;  but  she's 
on  the  level  of  a  musical-comedy  star.  Arden,  my  lad,  I'm 
an  old  man,  but  I  swear  people  had  a  little  more  dignity  and 
restraint  in  my  young  days.  The  one  good  thing  about  the 
court  mourning  is  that  she  doesn't  get  so  much  opportunity 
for  her  antics." 

"She'll  emerge  again,  when  it's  over,"  Arden  predicted. 
"Meanwhile,  London  is  becoming  very  tiresome.  Has  life 
lost  its  savour?  Are  we  growing  old?  One  would  give 
much  for  the  tonic  of  a  good  scandal." 

"There'll  be  no  lack  of  that,"  Jack  prophesied,  "judging 
from  the  people  I  see  in  London  nowadays." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN 

"A  maid  too  easily 
Conceits  herself  to  be 

Those  things 
Her  lover  sings; 
And  being  straitly  wooed, 
Believes  herself  the  Good 

And  Fair 
He  seeks  in  her." 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON:     "ANY  SAINT." 

"D'vou  remember  once  saying  that  you  wanted  the  tonic 
of  a  good  scandal?"  asked  Jack  Waring  one  night  three 
years  later.  "It  was  soon  after  King  Edward's  death." 

"And  we  were  all  very  respectable  and  dull."  Valentine 
Arden  roused  from  sleep,  blinked  at  the  clock  and  rang  for 
a  whiskey  and  soda.  "One  recalls  it.  There  is  a  difference 
between  court  mourning  and  the  second  coming  of  Christ, 
but  the  English  are  the  last  people  in  the  world  to  recognize 
it.  And  there  is  a  difference  between  taking  a  tonic  and 
being  pelted  to  death  with  medicine  bottles.  Since  those 
days  one  scans  the  paper  each  morning  to  see  what  new 
reputations  have  been  lost.  Who  has  made  the  latest  Roman 
holiday?" 

"Oh,  it's  this  old  business  about  your  friend  Barbara 
Neave." 

Jack  threw  the  paper  to  Arden  and  took  up  another  in 
which  he  could  read,  with  insignificant  verbal  changes,  a 
second  anti  equally  gratifying  account  of  his  own  prowess 
in  the  Court  of  Appeal  that  day.  Three  years  earlier  he 
had  talked  to  Eric  Lane  of  abandoning  his  unproductive 

58 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  59 

criminal  work  on  circuit;  he  now  wondered  whether  he 
dared  abandon  circuit  work  altogether  and  concentrate  on 
his  London  practice.  After,  perhaps,  six  years  more  he 
would  be  wondering  whether  to  risk  his  whole  practice  by 
applying  for  silk.  Success  was  none  the  less  gratifying  be- 
cause he  had  backed  his  own  determination  against  the  dis- 
paraging anticipations  of  his  friends.  Jack  knew  as  well 
as  any  one  that  he  was  not  a  great  lawyer;  but  natural 
shrewdness  gained  him  a  reputation  for  sound  judgement; 
slowness  passed  for  caution;  and  the  inelasticity  which 
saved  him  from  seeing  all  round  a  case  was  reinforced  by 
an  obstinate  refusal  to  let  go  the  single  point  which  he  had 
grasped.  More  than  one  over-astute  witness  in  those  three 
years  had  entered  the  box  with  assurance  and  left  it  in  dis- 
may. 

Only  those  who  had  known  him  longest  wondered  occa- 
sionally whether  his  practice  had  not  been  bought  at  the 
price  of  his  soul.  The  plea  of  work  and  a  ponderous  affec- 
tation of  age  excused  him  from  any  effort  to  widen  his 
interests.  As  old  a  friend  as  Eric  Lane  was  allowed  to  drop 
out  of  his  life ;  he  refused  to  enter  a  new  house  and  on  one 
pretext  or  another  reduced  the  number  of  the  old,  until  any 
time  that  he  could  spare  from  work  was  divided  between 
his  club  and  his  home  in  the  country.  At  the  first  his  friends 
were  at  liberty  to  visit  him,  if  they  chose;  but  he  was  ob- 
viously happier  with  the  two  Chancery  silks  and  the  one 
Indian  judge,  all  of  them  twice  his  age,  in  whose  company 
he  dined  nightly.  And  the  influence  of  Red  Roofs  was 
even  more  lamentable  on  a  man  who  was  born  self-centred 
and  opinionated;  Mrs.  Warning  and  Agnes  idolized  and 
spoiled  him,  the  colonel  crystallized  an  intolerant  conserva- 
tism of  ideas  which  was  better  justified  as  the  mature  ex- 
perience of  a  middle-aged  soldier  and  country  gentleman 
than  as  the  untried  prejudice  of  a  thirty-year-old  barrister. 
"A  man  may  be  a  prig  or  a  bore  or  both,"  said  Pentyre  at 


60  LADY  LILITH 

a  time  of  temporary  estrangement,  "but  he  needn't  be  so 
infernally  pleased  with  himself  about  it."  The  school  of 
sport  and  fashion  which  Jack  had  once  led  at  Oxford  enter- 
tained the  same  feeling,  if  it  expressed  it  with  more  disap- 
pointment and  less  candour. 

"The  coroner  would  seem  to  have  spoken  with  visible 
emotion,"  commented  Arden,  trying  to  disguise  his  relish 
as  he  read  the  paper  which  Jack  had  thrown  to  him.  "One 
wishes  one  had  stayed  to  the  end." 

"I've  no  doubt  she'll  try  to  use  it  as  another  advertise- 
ment," Jack  grunted.  "What  her  unfortunate  people  must 
think.  .  .  .  And  what  the  younger  generation  is  coming  to. 
It's  a  good  thing  for  Jim  that  he's  being  spared  all  this." 

"Yet  he  also  has  unselfishly  contributed  to  the  general 
diversion,"  said  Arden. 

Three  years  had  passed  since  Sonia  Dainton  delighted  her 
friends  by  becoming  engaged  to  Loring,  and  two  since  she 
astonished  them  by  breaking  off  the  engagement.  He  had 
at  once  gone  abroad  and  was  reported  to  be  still  cruising 
aimlessly  in  the  East.  The  social  ghouls  had  hardly  sated 
themselves  with  gossip,  when  Webster  entangled  himself 
with  the  proprietress  of  a  dancing  academy  and  was  con- 
strained to  pay  damages  for  breach  of  promise ;  and,  while 
this  case  was  still  being  discussed,  Jack  Summertown  pro- 
ceeded to  occupy  the  press  for  three  days  with  an  enquiry 
into  a  series  of  minor  outrages  inflicted  on  an  unpopular 
brother  officer.  Valentine  Arden  sat  through  the  whole 
variety  programme,  unamused  and  detached,  watching  his 
friends  succumbing  one  after  another  to  epidemic  madness. 
"The  spirit  of  Pan  is  abroad,"  he  explained  gravely. 

Lady  Barbara  Neave  had  flitted  on  the  outskirts  of  each 
new  scandal;  but,  since  her  flying  accident,  she  had  con- 
tributed no  scandal  of  her  own. 

For  the  first  year  of  the  three  she  opened  her  social  cir- 
cuit as  comprehensively  as  an  unfledged  barrister.  Lady 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  61 

Crawleigh  carried  her  from  Milford  to  Kenworth,  from 
Warmslow  to  Lenge  and  from  Cheniston  to  Granlake.  Lady 
Barbara's  interest  in  social  analysis  was  roused  and  fed  by 
her  tour  of  the  great  houses;  they  required  a  technique 
different  from  the  absolutism  of  Government  House  and  the 
unaided  personal  ascendancy  of  London;  and,  if  she  re- 
mained unabsorbed  into  the  new  atmosphere,  at  least  she 
returned  to  Crawleigh  Abbey  with  a  mature  country-house 
philosophy  and  clear-cut  ideas  of  what  to  avoid  and  extrude 
from  her  own  parties.  The  second  year  was  devoted  to 
romantic  exploration.  At  the  end  of  the  court  mourning 
she  met  a  pleasant  undistinguished  soldier  on  furlough  and 
chose,  for  no  better  reason — so  far  as  her  parents  could 
see — than  that  he  was  already  married,  to  fancy  herself  in 
love  with  him.  Their  few  meetings — and  still  more  their 
emotional  parting — convinced  at  least  the  theatrical  side  of 
her  temperament  that  she  had  broken  her  heart  in  a  hopeless 
passion.  Always  thin,  she  artistically  allowed  herself  to 
waste.  For  twelve  teeming  months  she  passively  accepted 
the  worship  of  all  who  were  intrigued  by  her  attitude  of 
mystery  and  unresponsiveness ;  then  native  impatience  broke 
through  the  unconvincing  crust  of  cynicism,  and  she  re- 
turned to  London  in  a  dangerous  state  of  expectancy  and 
unsatisfied  excitement.  In  the  absence  of  an  overt  scandal, 
her  father  hoped  that  she  was  sobered  from  the  tomboy  who 
had  spread  devastation  through  his  three  viceregal  terms  of 
office ;  the  lesser  optimists  opined  that  she  was  only  awaiting 
adequate  opportunity. 

Disaster  overtook  her  in  the  summer  of  1913 ;  and,  what- 
ever other  criticism  was  made,  no  one  could  deny  that  she 
won  notoriety  in  the  grand  manner.  The  facts,  as  disclosed 
in  court,  revealed  that  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann  had  given  a  ball 
at  his  house  in  Westbourne  Terrace.  Lady  Barbara  decided 
within  a  few  minutes  of  her  arrival  that  the  party  was  over- 
crowded and  tiresome.  Finding  her  slave  Webster  unoccu- 


62  LADY  LILITH 

pied,  she  suggested  that  he  should  drive  her  to  another 
dance  in  the  country  and  return  to  Westbourne  Terrace 
when  the  congestion  had  been  relieved.  As  his  own  car  was 
gone  home,  they  explored  the  line  until  the  unknown  chauf- 
feur of  some  one  else's  car  was  persuaded  to  take  them  to 
Rickmansworth,  wait  half  an  hour  and  bring  them  back. 
Lady  Barbara  promised  that  there  should  be  no  awkward 
consequences,  if  they  were  discovered;  Webster  substan- 
tiated her  guarantee  with  a  five-pound  note;  and,  by  the 
time  that  they  had  further  cajoled  him  with  a  stimulating 
supper  of  champagne  and  cutlets,  the  driver's  last  reluctance 
was  overcome. 

The  story  was  liberally  punctuated  with  questions  on  the 
general  propriety  of  a  girl's  bribing  a  strange  chauffeur  and 
stealing  an  unknown  car,  with  comments,  too,  on  the  dig- 
nity of  their  carrying  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  a  plate  of 
cutlets  into  the  middle  of  Westbourne  Terrace.  There  fol- 
lowed a  digression  to  discover  how  much  had  been  con- 
sumed; Lady  Barbara  and  Webster  asserted  unshakably 
that  the  chauffeur  was  sober  and  that,  if  his  driving  became 
erratic  at  any  point,  this  was  due  to  his  admitted  ignorance 
of  the  route. 

While  the  question  of  sobriety  was  left  in  suspense,  the 
expedition  was  reconstructed  to  the  moment  when  the  car 
reached  a  fork  in  the  road  and  the  chauffeur  turned  to 
Webster  and  asked  "Eight  or  left,  sir?"  Examined  on  the 
question  of  speed,  Lady  Barbara  was  sure  that  they  were 
not  going  more  than  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  an  hour; 
twenty-five  at  the  outside,  Webster  conceded  unwillingly; 
they  could  not  see  the  speedometer.  It  was  suggested,  how- 
ever, that  they  must  have  calculated  how  long  the  double 
journey  would  take;  they  had  even  noticed  when  the  car 
started  and  when  it  stopped ;  a  damaging  calculation  shewed 
that  their  average  pace  was  thirty-seven  miles  an  hour  and 
that,  if  they  drove  slowly  out  of  London,  they  must  have 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  63 

reached  forty-five  or  fifty  miles  an  hour  in  the  country. 
And  they  had  not  told  the  man  to  moderate  his  pace ;  it  even 
seemed  that  they  had  encouraged  him  to  drive  faster. 

At  the  fork  in  the  road  Webster  called  out,  "To  the  right, 
I  think";  then  he  saw  that  he  was  mistaken  and  shouted, 
"No !  the  left."  In  trying  to  change  direction,  the  chauffeur 
drove  into  a  wedge-shaped  brick  wall  and  was  instantly  killed. 
Lady  Barbara  and  her  companion  escaped  with  a  severe 
shaking  and  a  few  scratches  from  the  broken  glass  of  the 
wind-screen ;  the  front  of  the  car  was  smashed  beyond  repair. 

The  accident  took  place  in  open  country  without  a  house 
in  sight.  As  soon  as  they  saw  that  the  driver  was  dead, 
Lady  Barbara  spread  her  cloak  over  the  crushed  head  and 
broken  face;  Webster's  nerve  was  gone,  and  she  left  him, 
whimpering,  to  guard  the  body,  while  she  went  in  search  of 
help.  An  early  market-cart  came  to  their  rescue,  and  they 
rumbled  slowly  back  to  London,  shivering  in  their  thin 
clothes  and  glancing  over  their  shoulders  at  a  pair  of  twisted 
legs  in  black  gaiters,  which  protruded  stiffly  from  beneath 
a  blood-stained  cloak. 

The  news  swept  through  London  in  the  evening  papers, 
and  Lady  Barbara  was  inundated  next  day  with  enquiries 
and  messages  of  sympathy.  So  grudging  a  critic  as  Jack 
Waring  contended  warmly  at  the  County  Club  that,  apart 
from  her  silliness  in  rushing  away  to  the  country  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  borrowing  a  car  without  leave,  she 
was  really  not  to  blame;  and  it  was  a  dreadful  experience 
for  any  girl.  By  comparison  with  Webster  she  had  kept  her 
head  and  behaved  very  properly,  taking  the  body  straight 
to  a  hospital,  communicating  with  the  widow,  making  her- 
self personally  responsible  for  a  liberal  pension  and  under- 
taking to  replace  the  shattered  car.  Before  night  two  papers 
had  published  sympathetic  interviews  with  her,  reproducing 
in  her  own  not  undramatic  words  the  abrupt  transition  from  a 
careless  drive  to  violent  death,  the  slow  passage  of  a  funeral 


64  LADY  LILITH 

procession  between  barren  grey  fields,  the  silence  and  desola- 
tion of  the  night,  the  early-morning  chill  which  beat  on  her 
unprotected  arms  and  shoulders  and  the  haunting  sense  of 
helplessness  which  dominated  every  other  feeling.  Inset  was 
one  photograph  of  her  in  evening  dress  and  another  with  hol- 
low cheeks  and  big  ghostly  eyes,  in  the  subdued  black 
frock  which  she  had  worn  to  receive  her  interviewers ;  for 
these  Jack  blamed  the  notorious  vulgarity  of  the  Press. 

Admiration  changed  again  to  pity  when  the  inquest 
opened.  Sonia  Dainton,  who  attended  as  an  act  of  friend- 
ship, reported  that  the  coroner  was  underbred  and  ill-tem- 
pered; Lady  Maitland,  who  felt  no  curiosity  but  did  not 
want  Barbara  to  think  that  her  friends  were  deserting  her, 
added  that  he  was  a  natural  bully ;  and  the  Duchess  of  Ross, 
who  hated  any  unpleasantness  and  only  went — with  Lord 
Poynter,  Mrs.  Shelley  and  Val  Arden — to  give  the  girl  con- 
fidence, brought  back  word  that,  to  the  best  of  his  ability 
and  the  utmost  of  his  despotic  functions,  he  was  resolved 
to  humiliate  Lady  Barbara,  to  discredit  her  associates  and, 
without  respect  of  persons,  to  put  such  a  brand  on  her  fam- 
ily and  herself  that  they  would  never  again  dare  to  shew 
themselves  among  decent  men  and  women.  The  witness 
learned  on  the  first  day  that  she  was  a  pampered  and  spoiled 
child ;  blasee  and  restless,  she  would  do  anything  for  a  new 
excitement;  with  that  absence  of  rudimentary  decorum 
which  some  people  appeared  to  think  "smart,"  she  had  law- 
lessly appropriated  a  car — the  coroner  wondered  what  she 
would  think  if  any  one  took  one  of  her  father's  cars  "just 
for  a  joke" — she  had  helped  to  make  the  driver  intoxi- 
cated, thereby  shewing  characteristic  disregard  for  the 
safety  of  mere  ordinary  people  who  might  also  want  to  use 
the  road ;  she  or  her  companion — was  it  usual  for  a  girl  to 
ride  about  at  night  unattended  in  this  way  ? — had  incited  the 
chauffeur  to  drive  at  a  reckless  rate  of  speed.  And  the  price 
of  this  prank — the  momentary  diversion  of  the  Lady  Bar- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  65 

bara  Neave,  daughter  of  the  Marquis  of  Crawleigh,  one 
time  Governor-General  of  Canada,  Viceroy  of  India  and 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland — was  the  hideous  death  of  a 
man  who  left  behind  him  a  widow  and  four  small  children. 
Lady  Barbara,  who  naturally  thought  that  money  paid  for 
everything,  was  graciously  and  of  her  abundance  trying  to 
compute  the  dead  man's  cash  value  to  his  wife.  The  hear- 
ing was  adjourned  for  a  week,  as  Mr.  Webster  was  indis- 
posed by  the  shock  of  the  accident. 

Had  the  coroner  been  inspired  by  malice,  he  could  not 
have  waged  a  deadlier  warfare  than  by  taking  three  days  for 
the  inquest  and  allowing  intervals  of  a  week  for  the  case  to 
be  discussed.  The  stream  of  sympathy  ran  dry ;  and,  if  no 
one  criticized  Lady  Barbara  to  her  face,  every  one  chattered 
about  the  enquiry  and  took  his  time  from  the  coroner.  Re- 
penting his  precipitate  tolerance,  Jack  Waring  told  the  two 
Chancery  silks  and  the  Indian  judge  that  it  was  absurd  for 
Crawleigh  to  say  that  the  man  was  abusing  his  position  and 
stirring  up  class  prejudice;  when  one  looked  back  over  the 
last  few  years,  one  remembered  a  dozen  things  which  Lady 
Barbara  had  been  allowed  to  do  for  no  better  reason  than 
that  she  was  Lady  Barbara  Neave ;  but  a  line  had  really  to 
be  drawn  somewhere.  If  Crawleigh  disliked  having  mud 
thrown  at  him  in  public,  he  should  exercise  his  authority 
with  the  girl ;  her  friends  were  wholly  impossible.  .  .  . 

By  the  time  that  Webster  was  well  enough  to  give  evi- 
dence, the  tide  was  in  flood  against  him.  The  breach  of 
promise  case  was  fresh  in  the  public  mind ;  and,  if  it  could 
not  relevantly  be  brought  up  against  him,  it  had  at  least 
familiarised  his  appearance  and  history  and  made  a  dark 
background  to  his  examination.  Mr.  Webster  was  a  young 
man;  he  did  not  work  for  his  Jiving,  as  hSfiad  considerable 
private  means ;  in  fact,  he  had  nothing  to  do  except  to  spend 
money  and  amuse  himself.  Pressed  to  state  what  good  he 
was  effecting  for  himself  or  the  world  at  large,  he  could 


66  LADY  LILITH 

only  say  that  he  was  interested  in  the  theatre  and  fond  of 
motoring — another  instance  of  this  small,  rich,  insistent 
class  whose  social  importance  varied  in  inverse  ratio  as  its 
public  usefulness.  Put  shortly,  his  object  in  life  was  to  kill 
time,  to  avoid  boredom. 

The  story  of  the  night  drive  was  rehearsed  a  second  time, 
as  the  coroner  wished  to  know  who  had  proposed  it;  and 
the  suspended  question  of  the  driver's  sobriety  was  brought 
up  for  retrial.  A  bottle  of  champagne  had  been  mentioned ; 
had  Mr.  Webster  and  Lady  Barbara  partaken  of  it  in  their 
idyllically  democratic  picnic  ?  Mr.  Webster  had  dined  at  his 
club;  could  he  remember  what  he  had  drunk  with  his  din- 
ner? His  bill  would  no  doubt  shew  that. 
•'  On  the  second  adjournment  a  sordid  note  had  been  intro- 
duced, alienating  the  last  sympathisers  and  sinking  a  tragedy 
in  a  drunken  frolic.  No  one  acquainted  with  Webster 
would  associate  him  with  a  temperate  life;  those  who  saw 
him  for  the  first  time  in  court  with  twitching  hands,  a  puffy 
face  and  flickering  eyelids  drew  their  own  conclusions.  If 
it  was  a  shock  to  look  at  Lady  Barbara  and  to  hear  it  sug- 
gested that  she,  too,  had  been  hardly  accountable  for  her 
actions,  the  shock  was  not  wholly  displeasing  to  those  who 
believed  in  the  rottenness  of  so-called  "society." 

"They  say  I've  murdered  the  man,"  she  whispered  to  her 
father,  as  she  left  the  court.  "They've  made  the  foulest  in- 
sinuations about  Fatty  Webster  and  me.  Now  they  say  I 
drink.  There's  not  much  left,  is  there?  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  the  people  in  the  street  hooted  me." 

Lord  Crawleigh  chewed  his  blonde,  viking  moustache  and 
hurried  her  across  the  pavement  into  a  closed  car.  He  had 
never  been  present  at  an  inquest  before;  and  a  voice  had 
murmured  that  the  coroner  was  working  for  a  verdict  of 
manslaughter.  A  nondescript  crowd,  dotted  with  cameras, 
waited  in  a  half-circle  outside  the  court;  it  was  curious,  but 
at  present  it  was  silent.  Valentine  Arden  paused  at  the  door 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  67 

and  ostentatiously  raised  his  hat.  He,  too,  would  not  have 
been  surprised  to  hear  hooting;  and  he  was  disappointed  to 
have  no  vivid  contrast  for  his  gesture  of  chivalry.  He  won- 
dered whether  Lady  Barbara  was  missing  the  hostile  dem- 
onstration ;  it  would  have  been  a  new  sensation.  .  .  . 

On  the  third  day  she  appeared  once  more  in  a  black  hat 
and  dress  and  sat  with  her  veil  up,  waiting  for  the  verdict 
and  the  coroner's  comments.  Arden  decided  that  she  was 
modelling  herself  on  Marie  Antoinette  and  hoped  that  she 
would  be  given  an  opportunity  of  speaking.  At  the  end,  the 
jury  found  that  death  was  due  to  misadventure;  the  re- 
porters closed  their  note-books,  and  Lord  Crawleigh  reached 
for  his  hat.  Arden  left  at  once  for  fear  of  spoiling  his 
earlier  effect  by  repetition,  but  the  evening  papers  reported 
the  invective  of  the  coroner  in  full. 

"I  suggest  to  the  representatives  of  the  press  that  it  is 
their  duty  to  give  the  widest  publicity  to  this  case.  In  an  ex- 
perience which  goes  back  for  a  good  many  years  now,  I  have 
never  regretted  so  bitterly  that  I  have  no  power  to  punish 
those  who  by  wanton  carelessness  or  evil  disposition  con- 
tribute to  the  death  of  a  man  or  woman  as  surely  as  if  they 
had  killed  him  with  their  own  hands.  We  have  had  an  illum- 
inating picture  of  the  life  and  habits  of  some  of  those  who 
traditionally  expect  us  to  look  up  to  them  for  an  example.  If 
these  people  are  too  idle  or  vicious  or  brainless  to  live  a  life 
which  shall  be  of  use  to  the  community,  there  should  at  least 
be  power  to  restrain  them  from  becoming  a  source  of  public 
danger.  The  proper  treatment  for  such  incipient  hooligans 
and  reformatory  children  is  the  birch-rod:  I  wish  I  had  au- 
thority to  order  it.  Rank  and  wealth  can  only  be  defended  if 
they  impose  obligations:  to  these  bright  ornaments  of  the 
leisured  classes  they  only  afford  opportunities.  There  lias 
been  far  too  much  of  this  kind  of  thing  lately,  and  I  hope  I 
shall  never  again  be  required  to  deal  with  so  disgraceful  a 
case.  These  young  hobbledehoys,  unchecked  by  any  domestic 


68  LADY  LILITH 

iiscipline,  unrestrained  by  common  decency,  owing  no  obli- 
gation to  any  one,  a  law  unto  themselves,  cure  a  new  and 
poisonous  growth  in  our  social  life.  They  fulfil  no  useful 
purpose,  there  is  no  room  for  them." 

"There  was  a  hostile  demonstration  in  the  street,"  Arden 
announced,  as  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  report. 

"How  she  must  have  enjoyed  it!"  grunted  Jack. 

"One  wishes  one  had  stayed  to  the  end.  The  court  was 
not  unlike  a  gala  night  at  Covent  Garden.  You  have  read 
the  descriptions  of  the  dresses?  No?" 

"All  this  only  encourages  her,"  Jack  pointed  out.  "I'm 
about  the  one  man  in  London  who's  succeeded  in  not  meet- 
ing her,  but,  if  there's  ever  a  revolution,  that  young  woman 
will  have  done  more  than  any  one  else  to  bring  it  about. 
And  she'll  be  photographed  getting  into  the  tumbril;  and 
some  one  will  interview  her  on  the  scaffold.  On  my  hon- 
our, I  can't  see  what  amusement  she  gets  out  of  it." 

"Emotion,  drama,  limelight,  romance/'  Arden  suggested. 
"Lady  Barbara  may  be  sure  that  every  one  in  London  is 
talking  about  her  at  this  moment ;  London  is  her  stage." 

"Well,  she'll  have  to  retire  from  it  after  this,"  said  Jack. 

"She  will  re-emerge,"  Arden  prophesied. 

Both  predictions  were  fulfilled  before  the  end  of  the 
summer.  Lord  Crawleigh  held  his  hand  until  the  inquest 
was  over,  because  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  deal  even 
justice  while  the  offence  was  fresh.  For  three  weeks  he 
was  equally  indifferent  to  Lady  Barbara's  tragic  attitude, 
the  sympathy  of  friends  and  the  infamies  of  a  hostile  press : 
more  than  one  anonymous  letter  reached  him,  to  be  read 
with  a  frown  and  silently  filed  with  the  documents  in  the 
case;  and  it  was  reported  that  a  reference  to  his  family 
had  crept  into  the  patter  of  a  music-hall  comedian.  In  the 
rich  silence  of  a  choleric  and  expressive  man  the  nerves  of 
family  and  retainers  stretched  to  breaking-point. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  verdict  he  assembled  his  wife  and 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  69 

children  in  the  library,  rehearsed  the  charges  against  Lady 
Barbara  and  made  known  his  will.  Henceforward  she  was 
to  go  nowhere  unless  attended  by  her  mother,  one  of  her 
brothers  or  her  maid.  The  family  would  proceed  to  Craw- 
leigh  Abbey  that  day  and  would  remain  there  until  further 
notice.  The  ball  which  Lady  Crawleigh  was  giving  would 
be  cancelled;  his  daughter  was  to  refuse  all  invitations 
already  accepted  and  to  accept  no  more.  At  the  end  of 
the  season  she  would  stay  in  no  house  unless  one  at  least 
of  her  parents  accompanied  her. 

As  he  ended,  Lady  Barbara  stole  a  glance  round  the 
hushed  library.  Her  three  brothers  were  silent  and  sub- 
missive; her  mother  helpless  and  pained,  like  an  "honest 
broker"  who  saw  the  nations  of  the  world  flying  at  one 
another's  throats,  when  she  had  exhausted  herself  to  keep 
the  peace;  her  father's  eyes  were  burning,  and  he  dragged 
at  one  side  of  his  moustache  as  though  he  were  trying  to 
tear  it  out  by  the  roots.  In  every  altercation,  great  and 
small,  Lady  Barbara  had  to  fight  single-handed. 

"But,  father,  you  seem  to  think  this  was  my  fault!"  she 
cried  in  bewilderment. 

Lord  Crawleigh  handed  his  wife  a  paper  with  fingers 
that  trembled. 

"Here  are  the  dates  and  trains,"  he  said.  "You  will 
go  to  the  Abbey  by  the  4.10  from  Waterloo.  I  shall  join 
you  at  tTie  end  of  the  session."  He  turned  to  his  daughter 
without  trusting  himself  to  face  her  dark,  reproachful  eyes. 
"I  contemplate  taking  you  to  Raglan  in  August  and  House 
of  Steynes  in  September,  if  your  aunts  see  fit  not  to  with- 
draw your  invitation " 

"But  how  long  is  this  going  on  ?"  Lady  Barbara  interrupted. 

"I  cannot  permit  any  discussion,"  he  answered  in  some- 
thing that  was  half  a  whisper  and  half  a  sigh. 

Lady  Barbara  looked  at  him  reflectively  and  went  to  her 
room.  When  she  came  of  age,  in  little  more  than  a  year's 


70  LADY  LILITH 

time,  he  would  have  no  means  of  coercing  her.  Without 
waiting  a  year  she  could  go  to  Harry  Manders  and  demand 
to  be  given  a  part ;  he  had  offered  her  one  in  her  own  duo- 
logue. But  the  tension  of  the  last  three  weeks  and  the 
dazing  examination  and  attack  at  the  inquest  had  left 
her  uncertain  of  herself.  A  day  or  two  at  the  Abbey,  even 
though  she  were  snatched  away  in  the  middle  of  the  season, 
would  give  her  time  to  find  her  bearings  and  discover  what 
people  really  thought  of  her. 

The  more  she  pondered,  the  deeper  grew  her  bewilder- 
ment. If  all  had  gone  well,  the  dash  to  Rickmans worth 
and  back  would  have  been  regarded  as  a  wholly  innocent 
diversion  in  the  course  of  a  tiresome  evening ;  on  her  return 
every  one  else  would  have  regretted  that  he  had  not  come 
too ;  even  the  borrowing  of  the  car  was  venial,  for  the  owner 
refused  to  accept  any  compensation,  though  the  insurance 
company  might  well  make  difficulties ;  even  he  regarded  the 
expedition  as  a  joke,  which  had  unhappily  turned  to  tragedy, 
and  was  far  sorrier  that  Lady  Barbara  should  have  been 
upset  than  that  the  chauffeur  should  have  been  killed. 

If  the  facts,  then,  were  innocent,  she  was  being  perse- 
cuted by  the  coroner  and  threatened  with  persecution  by 
society  at  large  for  an  accident  to  which  she  had  contributed 
nothing.  The  chauffeur  was  sober  enough  to  drive  through 
dense  traffic  on  the  Harrow  Road;  Webster — she  remem- 
bered his  words — had  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  through 
the  speaking-tube,  "You  can  let  her  out  a  bit  now,  I  should 
think.  We  don't  want  to  keep  you  out  too  long."  The 
charge  that  any  one  of  them  was  drunk  would  have  been 
more  insulting  if  it  had  been  less  grotesque.  And  for  this 
the  coroner  had  suggested  that  she  should  be  ostracized. 
And  her  simple-minded  father  imagined  that  there  were 
other  simple-minded  souls  who  would  take  such  a  Jack- 
in-office  at  his  own  pontifical  valuation. 

She  almost  hoped  that  they  would,  so  that  she  might  force 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  7r 

them  in  triumph  to  acknowledge  her  innocence.  To  start 
as  an  outcast  and  win  her  way  back  was  a  dramatic  dream 
which  almost  made  her  wish  that  she  was  guilty.  To  become 
an  outcast  might  be  as  dramatic  as  to  rise  from  obscurity 
to  a  pinnacle  of  fame.  .  .  .  Napoleon  owed  half  his  place 
in  history  to  St.  Helena. 

An  undistracted  fortnight  at  the  Abbey  cooled  Lady  Bar- 
bara's resentment  and  checked  the  more  romantic  flights  of 
her  imagination.  Her  father's  judgement  was  clearly  at 
fault ;  to  run  away  was  to  admit  herself  in  the  wrong.  By 
the  time  that  she  had  got  herself  into  perspective,  the  season 
was  so  near  its  end  that  she  did  not  think  it  worth  while 
to  make  a  demonstration  and  to  occupy  her  room  in  Berke- 
ley Square  by  force.  But  the  late  summer  and  autumn  lay 
before  her,  and,  when  her  father  came  to  the  Abbey  for  a 
week-end  in  July,  she  informed  him  that  she  had  not  yet 
cancelled  any  of  her  arrangements  for  staying  with  friends. 

"You  will  remain  here  till  we  go  to  the  Riviera  in  Feb- 
ruary," he  answered. 

"But,  father,  I'm  not  going  to.  This  is  quite  serious.  I've 
been  here  a  month  without  seeing  a  soul ;  I  should  go  mad, 
if  I  had  to  vegetate  for  another  seven  months.  If  you 
won't  let  me  go,  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  without  your  leave." 

"That  may  not  be  as  easy  as  you  think." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

Lord  Crawleigh  unlocked  a  red  leather  despatch-box, 
turned  over  his  files  and  produced  a  sheet  of  paper  which  he 
spread  before  her. 

"This  is  a  copy  of  a  cable  which  your  cousin  has  sent  to 
his  mother  from  Surinam.  I  had  intended  taking  you  to 
House  of  Steynes,  but  that  is  out  of  the  question  now." 

"Please  arrange  that  Barbara  and  her  friend  are  not 
admitted  to  my  house.  This  applies  to  Monmouthshire  and 
Scotland  as  well  as  London." 

Lady  Barbara  handed  back  the  paper  and  tried  to  laugh, 


72  LADY  LILITH 

but  she  knew  that  her  expression  was  out  of  control.  If 
the  news  had  reached  Surinam,  it  had  reached  every  cable- 
station  on  the  way;  and  the  operators  had  hardly  done 
feasting  themselves  on  the  inquest  before  a  message,  signed 
"Loring"  and  mentioning  her  by  name,  added  a  dainty  tit- 
bit to  the  savoury  repast.  Sooner  or  later  it  would  be  com- 
mon property  that  her  own  cousin  had  slammed  his  door  in 
her  face  for  fear  of  contamination;  the  family  would  be 
divided  into  those  who  knew  her  and  those  who  publicly 
refused  to  know  her;  she  would  become  a  test-case  for 
disreputability. 

"Jim  has  his  own  standards  of  loyalty,  hasn't  he?"  she 
commented  and  was  infuriated  to  find  her  voice  trembling. 
"He's  usually  so  keen  on  the  family  that  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  he'd  have  wanted  to  take  the  whole  world  into  his 
confidence.  One  good  thing,  he  can't  call  me  self-advertis- 
ing after  this.  Have  you  seen  the  darling  boy's  mother? 
Is  she — proud  of  him  over  this  ?" 

"She  was  as  much  shocked  as  I  was  that  you  should  have 
made  it  necessary." 

"I  ?  Father,  you  can't  make  me  responsible  for  this.  But 
is  she  proud  of  his  chivalry?  And  I  suppose  you  didn't 
make  a  fight  for  me?  I  must  see  her.  I  want  to  tell  her 
about  the  accident."  She  pressed  her  hands  to  cheeks  which 
were  still  hollow  from  the  anxiety  of  the  last  two  months 
and  looked  at  her  father  over  her  finger-tips.  "I'd  never 
seen  any  one  killed  before,  I'd  never  seen  a  dead  body ;  and 
I  couldn't  sleep  at  night,  because  of  it.  I  kept  seeing  that 
unhappy  woman's  face,  too,  when  I  had  to  tell  her  that  her 
husband  was  dead.  I  didn't  ask  for  sympathy,  but  I  thought 
perhaps  my  own  father  and  mother  might  have  seen  that  I 
wasn't  exactly — enjoying  myself,  that  I  was  ill,  worried  out 
of  my  mind.  If  7  had  a  daughter,  I  should  have  felt  for 
her,  I  think,  when  a  foul-mouthed  little  reptile  hinted  that 
she  was  drunk  and  that  her  lover  had  helped  her  kill  an 
innocent  man  for  her  own  amusement.  Never  a  word !  Do 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  73 

you  know  that  for  three  weeks  you  only  said  'Good-morn- 
ing' to  me,  father?  Even  if  I  was  guilty  a  hundred  times 
over,  it  wouldn't  have  compromised,  you  to  be  sorry  that  I 
was  suffering.  I  don't  complain.  You  at  least  left  me 
alone.  But  Jim  waits  till  I'm  beaten  to  my  knees,  waits  till 
I'm  bleeding — and  then  hits  wherever  he  can  see  a  bruise  or 
wound.  That  wasn't  necessary,  father." 

Lord  Crawleigh  rearranged  his  papers  without  answer- 
ing. He  was  himself  so  much  humiliated  by  his  nephew's 
cable  that  he  had  hardly  thought  how  it  might  affect  Bar- 
bara. She  was  always  most  formidable  when  she  stood,  as 
now,  with  drooping  head,  composed  and  subdued,  speak- 
ing in  an  undertone  and  rejecting  in  advance  any  sympathy 
that  he  might  belatedly  offer  her.  She  had  learned  in  child- 
hood to  fight  men  with  their  own  weapons  and  to  fall  back 
on  her  sex  when  the  battle  was  going  against  her.  He  had 
seen  her  trading  on  pathos  a  hundred  times  with  her  mother 
and  aunts,  using  to  full  advantage  a  pose  of  tired  frailty,  a 
wistful  mouth  and  big  eyes  which  filled  with  tears  at  will  or 
flashed  black  with  indignation;  she  could  droop  her  head 
and  body  until  she  looked  like  a  tortured  martyr,  or  cough 
until  she  looked  consumptive.  Almost  certainly  she  was 
acting  now,  but  her  passion  for  romance  and  a  dramatic 
impact  led  her  to  act  without  knowing  it. 

"If  you  had  behaved  properly,  this  would  not  have  hap- 
pened," he  threw  out  with  weak,  inconsequent  irritability. 

"It's  too  late  now.  Are  you  going  to  House  of  Steynes  ? 
Do  you  allow  people  to  say  that  they'll  be  glad  to  see  you 
on  condition  you  don't  bring  your  daughter  with  you  ?  And 
will  you  invite  Amy  and  Aunt  Eleanor  here  to  meet  some- 
body who  can't  be  admitted  to  their  house?" 

Lord  Crawleigh  had  enough  imagination  to  see  the  more 
obvious  consequences  of  his  nephew's  ultimatum;  but  he 
could  not  devise  an  effective  reply,  and  it  was  merely  exas- 
perating to  have  his  own  disadvantage  explored  and  stated 
by  Barbara. 


74  LADY  LILITH 

"I  talked  to  your  aunt.  She  says  she  daren't  go  against 
Jim's  wishes.  After  all,  they're  his  houses.  She's  writing  to 
him " 

"To  intercede  for  me?"  Lady  Barbara  interrupted  scorn- 
fully. "When  next  I  enter  House  of  Steynes,  it  will  be  on 
his  invitation.  And,  before  I  allow  him  to  invite  me,  he 
will  apologize." 

"It's  no  use  taking  that  line,"  cried  her  father  testily. 
Her  last  two  sentences  had  exceeded  the  probable  limits  of 
sincerity,  and  he  swooped  before  she  could  escape  into  a 
convincing  pathos.  "If  any  one  ought  to  apologize — 

Lady  Barbara  caught  sight  of  her  reflection,  full-length, 
in  a  mirror,  with  her  father  fidgetting  at  her  side.  He 
looked  insignificant,  almost  ridiculous,  with  his  domed  fore- 
head and  straggling  blonde  moustache,  his  short  body  and 
long  legs.  She  wanted  to  make  him  see  himself  and  to  play 
up  to  their  two  reflections  like  Metternich  and  L'Aiglon  in 
the  mirror  scene. 

"I  can  only  apologize  for  the  fact  of  my  existence,"  she 
sighed.  "I  was  not  responsible,  father,  and  you  know  it. 
And,  instead  of  standing  up  for  your  own  daughter,  you  let 
her  be  insulted.  I  can't  do  anything  with  people  who  stab  in 
the  back,  but  I'm  ready  to  meet  every  one !  I  will  meet  them. 
If  they  want  to  insult  me,  they  can  insult  me  to  my  face." 

The  embargo  on  Lady  Barbara's  presence  only  extended 
to  the  houses  controlled  by  her  cousin.  In  August  she  went 
to  stay  with  Lady  Knightrider  in  Raglan  and  was  received 
with  demonstrative  affection.  A  gentle  reaction  had  set  in, 
inspired  directly  by  Lord  Crawleigh  and  aided  by  all  who 
felt  that  Jim  Loring's  precipitous  cable  had  placed  the  fam- 
ily in  an  intolerable  position.  Working  in  a  sympathetic 
atmosphere,  Lady  Barbara  enlisted  her  aunt's  support  in  a 
campaign  which  was  to  rehabilitate  her  or  at  least  to  shew 
whether  she  stood  in  need  of  rehabilitation.  As  soon  as 
they  returned  to  London  for  the  autumn,  Lady  Knightrider 
undertook  to  give  a  dance  and  to  insist  that  Lady  Loring 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  75 

and  Amy  should  come;  if  Jim  were  home  by  then,  she 
would  make  him  come,  too,  and  the  whole  ridiculous  quarrel 
would  be  forgotten.  Lady  Barbara  intended  to  go  farther 
than  the  settlement  of  a  family  difference.  The  party  should 
be  a  challenge  to  all  who  felt  disposed  to  criticise  her;  she 
was  determined  to  appear  side  by  side  with  Webster  and 
to  give  them  their  opportunity;  and  any  one  who  declined 
to  come  would  have  to  shew  convincing  justification  for  his 
refusal. 

The  invitations  were  sent  out  six  weeks  in  advance ;  Lady 
Knightrider  reasoned  with  those  who  made  excuses,  sent 
reminders  to  those  who  had  accepted  and  surrounded  her- 
self with  a  staff  of  energetic  lieutenants. 

"You're  coming  on,  Val,  aren't  you?"  asked  George  Oak- 
leigh  distractedly  on  the  night  of  the  ball,  as  he  prowled 
hungrily  through  the  County  Club  with  a  list  in  his  hand. 
He  had  undertaken  to  bring  six  men  and  was  bribing  them 
beforehand  with  dinner. 

"A  doubt  has  crept  in,"  Arden  replied  uncertainly.  "One 
invitation  may  be  attributed  to  hospitality;  four  suggest 
panic." 

"Well,  if  there  are  too  few  men,  you'll  be  all  the  more 
popular;  if  there  are  too  many,  you  can  go  home  early. 
Gerry,  I'm  counting  on  you." 

Deganway  paused  for  an  instant  on  his  way  to-  the  cloak- 
room. 

"My  dear,  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  anything." 

Oakleigh  added  a  tick  to  his  list  and  hurried  after  Jack 
Waring.  They  were  still  disputing,  when  Eric  Lane  was 
announced. 

"I  don't  dance,  I  can't  talk  and  I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  said 
Jack  firmly. 

"You  can  go  after  half  an  hour,"  Oakleigh  promised. 

"Well,  I'll  come  for  one  cigar,  if  Eric  comes  too.  I'm  an 
old  man,  George ;  I  haven't  been  to  a  ball  for  ten  years." 

At  eleven  o'clock  Oakleigh  convoyed  them  securely  into 


76  LADY  LILITH 

the  drawing-room  of  Lady  Knightrider's  house  in  South 
Street.  By  the  test  of  numbers  the  dance  promised  well,  for 
the  house  was  already  crowded  and  Lady  Barbara's  rela- 
tions were  in  full  attendance.  Her  triumph  was  left  incom- 
plete by  the  absence  of  Webster,  but  he  had  been  snubbed 
more  than  once  in  the  last  few  months  and  was  waiting  for 
time  to  heal  his  reputation.  She  had  spent  the  afternoon 
arguing  with  him  until  she  felt  her  dignity  compromised,  and 
the  embers  of  her  ill-humour  smouldered  through  the  night. 

By  prearrangement  Jack  escaped  to  the  smoking-room  for 
a  cigar,  while  Eric  unbosomed  himself  of  news  which  had 
been  choking  him  for  three  days;  Harry  Manders  had 
accepted  a  play,  which  was  to  be  produced  in  the  following 
autumn ;  after  eight  years  of  disappointment  the  daydream 
was  being  realized.  They  were  still  bandying  congratula- 
tions and  thanks,  when  the  smoking-room  was  invaded  by 
Deganway  and  a  girl. 

"Isn't  that  the  famous  Lady  Barbara  Neave  ?"  Eric  whis- 
pered. 

Jack  half  turned  and  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  ask  me.  I'm  shortly  starring  at  the  Halls  as  the 
one  man  in  the  world  who  doesn't  know  her  and  doesn't 
want  to.  I  think  it  must  be,  all  the  same.  Gerry  seems  to 
be  getting  called  over  the  coals  for  something." 

Lady  Barbara's  annoyance  with  Webster  was  spending 
itself  on  Deganway.  There  were  long  silences,  broken  by 
deferential  squeaks  of  small-talk  from  him  and  restored  by 
petulant  rejoinders  from  her.  She  treated  her  companion 
with  a  contempt  that  was  almost  insolent  and  jumped  rest- 
lessly to  her  feet,  as  the  band  began  to  tune  up.  Deganway 
hurried  after  her  to  the  door,  and  the  calm  of  the  smoking 
room  was  only  disturbed  by  half-heard  music  and  the  sound 
of  high,  rapid  voices  on  the  stairs.  As  his  second  cigar 
burnt  low,  Jack  looked  at  his  watch  and  beckoned  Eric 
from  his  chair. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  PAN  77 

"Come  and  say  good-bye;  then  you  can  drop  me  at  the 
club,"  he  suggested. 

They  steered  a  tortuous  and  apologetic  course  through  the 
couples  seated  on  the  stairs  and  looked  hopelessly  for  Lady 
Knightrider.  In  their  absence  the  drawing-room  had  filled 
to  overflowing,  and  the  landings  and  balconies  were  packed 
to  the  limit  of  their  capacity.  As  the  next  dance  started, 
Deganway  entered,  blinking  in  the  light,  from  one  of  the 
open  French  windows;  Lady  Barbara  was  still  with  him, 
but,  as  the  music  began,  she  was  claimed  and  taken  away. 

"First  time  I've  ever  seen  you  indulging  in  frivolities  like 
this,  Jack,"  he  said,  letting  fall  his  eye-glass  and  hunting  for 
his  cigarette-case. 

"Well,  I  don't  dance,  and  the  conventional  alternative  is 
to  talk  to  young  women,"  answered  Jack.  "I  confess  that  I 
can  imagine  less  dreary  pastimes — for  both." 

"That  depends  on  the  woman.  I've  spent  most  of  the 
evening  with  Eabs  Neave.  My  dear,  there's  plenty  of  ex- 
citement in  talking  to  her\  Care  to  meet  her?" 

"I'm  going  home  as  soon  as  I've  found  Lady  Knight- 
rider,"  Jack  answered. 

"It'd  pay  you  to  talk  to  her  for  a  bit.  Let  me  introduce 
you!  She's  awful  good  fun — doesn't  care  a  damn  what 
she  says  or  does " 

"That's  her  general  reputation,"  interrupted  Jack. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  believe  everything  you  hear  about  her. 
She's  quite  all  right  really;  awful  nice  girl.  Let  me  intro- 
duce you !" 

Jack  shook  his  head  and  took  Eric  by  the  arm. 

"My  dear  Deganway,  I've  no  doubt  she's  everything  you 
say,  but  I  don't  care  a  great  lot  for  the  Websters  and  Pen- 
ningtons  and  Welmans  and  Erckmanns  and  all  that  gang 
that  she  goes  about  with.  They're  such  devilish  bad  style. 
Good-night." 

Deganway  grinned  maliciously. 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  tell  her  what  you  said.    Do  her  no 


78  LADY  LILITH 

end  of  good.  And  I  should  get  a  bit  of  my  own  back  after 
the  way  she's  been  ragging  me." 

They  stood  talking  by  the  door  until  the  music  stopped. 
Then  Jack  and  Eric  turned  and  went  downstairs,  while 
Deganway  sidled  up  to  Lady  Barbara. 

"No,  you're  tiresome  to-night,"  she  told  him,  when  he 
asked  for  another  dance.  "Who  are  those  two  going  out? 
I  don't  know  them." 

"The  fair  one's  Jack  Waring " 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  know  him,"  Lady  Barbara  inter- 
rupted. "I'm  tired  of  everybody." 

Deganway  hurried  obediently  out  of  the  room  and  re- 
turned a  moment  later  with  a  smirk  of  satisfaction. 

"Try  again,  Babs,"  he  suggested.  "Waring's  not  taking 
any." 

"Do  talk  intelligibly,  Gerry !" 

"Well,  I  told  him  before  that  he  ought  to  meet  you.  I 
said  what  good  fun  you  were  and  what  he  was  missing  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing " 

Lady  Barbara  shivered  at  the  blunt  catalogue  of  her 
charms. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

By  natural  compensation  Deganway  atoned  for  certain 
defects  of  intelligence  by  an  excellent  power  of  mimicry. 
He  gave  not  only  Jack's  lilt  and  phraseology,  but  his  facial 
changes  and  rather  prim,  tight-lipped  smile. 

"I  tried  him  again,"  he  added,  "but  he  said  he  must  go 
to  bed.  I  don't  believe  he  wanted  to  meet  you." 

Lady  Barbara  smiled  composedly,  but  the  brusque  rebuff, 
brusquely  quoted,  wounded  her  pride  as  nothing  had  done 
since  Jim's  cable.  Some  one  had  taken  up  the  challenge,  as 
she  had  feared — or  hoped. 

"Sorry  he's  so  hard  to  please,"  she  answered  lightly.  "You 
can  give  me  some  supper,  if  you  like.  Who  and  what  is  he? 
A  candid  critic  is  so  rare  that  I  should  quite  like  to  meet 
him." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE 

"What  rage  for  fame  attends  both  great  and  small! 

Better  be  d d  than  mentioned  not  at  all !" 

JOHN  WOLCOTT:    "To  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMICIANS." 

"The  Princess  Juanita  dawned  upon  respectability  like 
Aphrodite  rising  fro\m  the  gutters." 

According  to  Mrs.  Shelley,  as  quoted  by  Eric  to  George 
Oakleigh  and  the  author,  this  was  the  opening  sentence  of 
Valentine  Arden's  "New  Jerusalem,"  and  she  had  given  a 
luncheon  party  on  the  strength  of  it.  Since  her  husband's 
death,  Eric  had  edged  gently  away  from  her  self-conscious 
artistic  menagerie;  he  had  been  recaptured  for  a  moment 
after  the  Coronation,  when  his  father  was  knighted  for 
"eminent  services  to  the  study  of  Anglo-Saxon"  and  he 
could  himself  be  introduced  as  "the  son  of  Sir  Francis  Lane, 
you  know" ;  and  it  was  no  sooner  hinted  that  a  play  of  his 
had  been  accepted  by  Harry  Manders  than  she  dragged  him 
back  into  his  cage  with  a  tacit  order  to  stay  there  until  his 
public  interest  was  exhausted. 

It  was  Mrs.  Shelley's  practice  to  read  every  book  of  im- 
portance on  the  day  of  publication;  it  was  her  ambition  to 
know  all  about  it  before  it  was  written.  The  new  satire,  she 
informed  her  guests,  had  engaged  Arden's  energies  for  two 
years  and  presented  a  picture  of  London  society  under  the 
empire  of  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann  and  the  cosmopolitans;  the 
forces  of  respectability  had  not  escaped  the  impartial  lash 
of  his  ridicule,  and  almost  every  character  was  a  portrait. 
Mrs.  Welman  waltzed  unmistakably  over  the  glittering 
pages  with  Sir  Deryk  Lancing;  Lord  Pennington,  Jack 

79 


8o  LADY  LILITH 

Summertown  and  the  Baroness  Kohnstadt  flitted  from  place 
to  place  like  the  chorus  of  a  musical  comedy,  and  every 
scandal  of  the  last  ten  years  was  described  or  mentioned. 
If  the  book  were  ever  published,  Mrs.  Shelley  was  con- 
vinced that  the  heavens  would  rain  writs  for  libel ;  certainly 
no  one  would  continue  to  know  the  author.  She  had  rea- 
soned with  him,  but  he  was  apparently  tired  of  London  and 
contemplated  impressing  his  personality  on  New  York. 

While  no  one  was  secure,  Eric  gathered  that  the  greatest 
speculation  surrounded  the  identity  of  "Princess  Juanita." 
Mrs.  Shelley  maintained  that  the  character  must  be  intended 
for  Sonia  Dainton,  who  had  joined  the  Erckmann  faction 
when  she  broke  off  her  engagement  with  Loring;  Lady 
Maitland,  who  was  still  smarting  in  the  belief  that  Arden 
had  sketched  her  for  his  earlier  "Madame  Chasseresse-de- 
Lions,"  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  now  squirting  his  poison 
at  Lady  Barbara  Neave.  "A  man  like  that,"  she  told  Mrs. 
Shelley,  "would  never  waste  time  on  a  commoner  like  Sonia 
Dainton  when  he  could  besmirch  the  daughter  of  a  marquess 
and  tickle  his  wretched  provincial  audience  by  calling  her  a 
princess."  Her  bitter  words  were  repeated  to  the  author,  who 
announced  that  he  was  giving  his  book  the  sub-title  "Com- 
moner and  Commoner,"  and  dedicating  it  to  Lady  Maitland. 
Only  when  he  was  tired  of  his  friends'  good  advice  did 
he  admit  that  the  satire  existed  but  in  his  imagination. 

"One  is  taken  altogether  too  literally/'  he  complained  to 
his  friends  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Thespian  Club.  "A 
grim,  cultured  hostess,  spectacled  young  poets  having  their 
own  poems  explained  to  them  by  Lady  Poynter,  a  dinner 
which  one  ate  and  tried  to  forget,  furtive  confidences  on  the 
wine  from  Lord  Poynter,  a  succession  of  longueurs — you 
see  the  scene?  Chelsea.  .  .  .  Earnestness.  .  .  .  Ill-assort- 
ment. .  .  .  Without  any  wish  to  epater  le  bourgeois,  one 
played  with  an  idea,  developed  it,  invented  characters,  let 
fall  a  phrase.  .  .  .  Perhaps  one  has  allowed  good  Sir  Adolf 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         81 

to  obsess  one's  mind.  ...  It  was  not  a  remarkable  phrase ; 
but  one  could  hardly  have  caused  a  greater  stir  if  one  had 
telegraphed  anonymously  to  one's  friends — "Fly.  All  is 
knoum."  Lady  Knightrider  almost  offered  one  a  blank 
cheque  to  stop  publication.  A  jeu  d'esprit  must  be  labelled 
before  it  is  offered  to  the  English." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  the  book's  not  going  to  be  published," 
said  Oakleigh.  "That  little  gang's  had  quite  enough  adver- 
tisement without  any  help  from  you." 

"One  hates  to  disappoint  Lady  Barbara,"  answered 
Arden  reflectively.  "Undeniably  she  compels  a  reluctant 
admiration.  She  has  lived  in  three  continents — in  regal  state ; 
she  has  met  every  one  and  done  everythng;  in  her  leisure 
she  has  written  plays,  selected  poetry,  exhibited  carica- 
tures— not  altogther  contemptible — of  her  family  and 
friends,  patronized  new  schools  of  decoration,  invented  new 
fashions  of  dress  and,  as  all  the  world  knows,  worn  them. 
What  remained?  One  met  her  first  some  years  ago  and 
asked  oneself  that  question.  It  is  still  unanswered !" 

"At  present  she's  bolstering  up  two  or  three  dozen  people 
who  are  only  received  on  the  strength  of  her  name,"  Oak- 
leigh replied.  "And  she's  going  to  find  that  her  name  isn't 
strong  enough  to  carry  them." 

"These  people  go  to  her  head,"  Arden  replied  with  dis- 
gust. "One  credited  her  with  more  detachment." 

The  campaign  of  rehabilitation  had  not  been  an  unquali- 
fied success.  Lady  Knightrider  aimed  at  reconciling  Bar- 
bara with  her  relations  rather  than  at  reconciling  her  rela- 
tions with  her  friends.  There  was  an  implied  threat  that 
she  must  choose  one  or  the  other;  and  a  prevalent  feeling 
was  crystallized  by  Jack  Waring,  when  he  said  that  she  was 
not  worth  knowing  at  the  price  of  having  to  know  her  dis- 
orderly retinue.  While  she  welcomed  the  concordat,  Lady 
Barbara  could  not  explain  to  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann  that  he 
was  her  fit  companion  one  day  and  unfit  the  next ;  she  might 


B2  LADY  LILITH 

gently  repel  a  cosmopolitan  here  and  there,  but  she  could 
not  refuse  all  their  invitations  always;  loyalty  imposed  its 
obligations,  and  stronger  than  loyalty  was  an  impatient  de- 
sire  to  tell  other  people  to  mind  their  own  business.  Yet 
the  concordat  might  have  endured,  if  the  discussion  of 
Arden's  hypothetical  book  had  not  impelled  Lady  Knight- 
rider  hot-foot  from  Mrs.  Shelley's  house  to  his  rooms  at 
the  Ritz.  Not  content  with  her  legitimate  relief  at  finding 
that  "Princess  Juanita"  was  no  less  a  myth  than  "The  New 
Jerusalem,"  she  confided  to  Arden  that  dear  Barbara  did  go 
about  with  "really  rather  dreadful  people" ;  some  one  at  her 
party  had  said  that  the  girl's  friends  were  such  that  he  pre- 
ferred not  to  know  her.  So  long  as  she  associated  with 
them,  it  was  only  too  probable  that  there  would  be  another 
unpleasantness  of  some  kind. 

"I  really  think  it  my  duty,"  she  said  on  leaving,  "to  drop 
a  little  hint  to  my  sister." 

The  nods  and  winks  of  verbal  warning  are  apt  to  take  on 
an  exaggerated  significance  when  defined  in  black  and  white. 
On  receipt  of  the  letter  Lord  Crawleigh  motored  to  London 
and  opened  a  new  commission  of  enquiry  to  investigate  the 
personal  desirability  of  his  daughter's  associates.  If  Lady 
Barbara  was  at  first  bewildered,  she  was  in  no  way  daunted, 
for  in  the  endless  intermingling  of  groups  throughout  Lon- 
don she  could  usually  find  a  sponsor  for  the  most  draggled 
of  her  friends.  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann's  private  life  might 
lead  him  into  the  Divorce  Court,  he  might  even  be  the  "vul- 
gar, common  fellow"  that  her  father  described,  but  he  had 
dined  in  Berkeley  Square  as  a  member  of  Lord  Crawleigh's 
Departmental  Committee  on  Indian  Currency  Reform. 
Lady  Crawleigh  always  went  to  the  vulgar,  common  fel- 
low's famous  musical  parties  in  Westbourne  Terrace.  Lady 
Barbara  had  originally  met  Mrs.  Welman  at  a  performance 
of  "The  School  for  Scandal,"  organized  by  Lady  Maitland 
for  charity,  and  had  naturally  accepted  the  implied  guar- 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         83 

antee;  it  was  not  against  civil,  canon  or  moral  law  for  a 
woman  to  have  been  on  the  stage.  Those  who,  like  Webster, 
could  not  so  easily  be  defended  were  pushed  into  the  back- 
ground. The  battle  of  wits  ceased  to  be  amusing  when  Lord 
Crawleigh  repeated  his  threat  that  Barbara  would  not  be 
allowed  to  go  anywhere  unless  she  were  suitably  chaperoned. 
The  dreary  banishment  at  the  Abbey  lingered  in  her  mem- 
ory as  a  summer  stolen  out  of  her  life.  As  her  patience 
ebbed,  she  decided  that  there  must  be  an  end  of  these  inqui- 
sitions. 

It  was  easy  to  trace  her  present  plight  through  Lady 
Knightrider  to  Val  Arden ;  but  there  was  some  one  behind 
Arden,  for  her  father  claimed  to  have  chapter  and  verse 
for  saying  that  people  were  refusing  to  know  her  so  long 
as  she  associated  with  her  present  friends.  With  a  shock  of 
surprise  she  recalled  a  self-satisfied  young  man  who  had 
in  fact  met  her  invitation  to  be  introduced  with  a  drawling, 
"Thanks  very  much.  She  may  be  all  you  say,  but  .  .  ." 

It  was  incredible  that  one  bumptious  boy  could  do  so 

much  harm Even  when  the  commission  adjourned 

without  arriving  at  an  agreed  report,  Lady  Barbara  felt 
that  a  vendetta  was  being  forced  upon  her.  .  .  . 

She  had  no  plan  of  campaign  and  knew  nothing  of  her 
adversary  but  his  name.  Apart  from  Gerry  Deganway  she 
did  not  know  of  any  one  who  was  acquainted  with  him;  and 
Deganway  had  done  enough  harm  already  without  being 
given  new  opportunities.  But,  if  the  vendetta  required  re- 
source, resource  should  be  forthcoming.  She  called  on 
Sonia  Dainton  the  day  after  her  father's  inquisition  and 
proposed  that  they  should  go  for  a  drive.  As  the  car  en- 
tered the  Park  by  Albert  Gate,  she  pretended  to  recognize 
a  face  and  said : 

"Wasn't  that  Jack  Waring?" 

"I  didn't  see,"  Sonia  answered. 

"It  was  like  him — though  I  don't  know  him  to  speak  to." 


34  LADY  LILITH 

"You'll  find  him  very  sticky.  He's  a  great  friend  of  your 
cousin  Jim.  When  we  were  engaged,  I  used  to  see  a  certain 
amount  of  him.  He's  a  heavy,  Stone- Age  creature;  when 
he  and  Jim  and  George  Oakleigh  put  their  wise  old  heads 
together,  there  was  nothing  they  wouldn't  disapprove  of !" 

"I  hear  he's  been  good  enough  to  criticize  me,"  said  Lady 
Barbara  carelessly. 

"When  he  doesn't  even  know  you?  What  did  he  say?" 
asked  Sonia. 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  Some  one  started  a  story  the 
other  day  that  I  took  drugs.  Li  Webster  heard  a  woman 
say,  'I  was  told  by  a  friend  who'd  been  to  the  same  dress- 
maker ;  her  arm  was  all  red  and  pulpy ;  I  believe  she's  been 
doing  it  for  years  and  that's  why  she  always  wears  long 
sleeves  at  night.'  Have  you  ever  seen  me  in  long  sleeves, 
Sonia.  I've  got  much  too  good  arms !  And,  if  I  wanted 
to  take  the  beastly  stuff,  shouldn't  I  have  it  injected  where 
it  wouldn't  shew  ?  I  did  want  to  meet  that  woman — just  to 
tell  her  to  use  her  brains.  And,  if  I  ever  meet  your  friend 
Mr.  Waring " 

"My  dear,  he's  not  my  friend !  I  was  asked  down  to 
Croxton  for  the  hunt  ball  at  the  end  of  this  month ;  I  made 
Bobby  Pentyre  tell  me  who  was  going  to  be  there  and,  when 
I  saw  Jack  Waring's  name,  I  said  'nothin'  doin'.'  I  know 
those  hunt  balls!  Vermilion  men  in  pink  coats.  .  .  .  Jack 
will  be  just  in  his  element;  he'll  support  a  wall  and  tell 
everybody  that  he  doesn't  know  any  of  'these  modern 
dances,'  as  though  it  were  something  to  be  proud  of." 

Lady  Barbara  laughed  mechanically  and  sorted  the  new 
information  into  its  appropriate  pigeon-hole.  She  was  din- 
ing and  going  to  a  play  that  night  with  Summertown  and 
his  sister ;  Sally  Farwell's  passion  for  Pentyre  had  become  a 
habit,  and,  if  he  did  not  reciprocate  her  passion,  he  could 
hardly  refuse  her  friend  an  invitation  for  the  ball.  Once 
within  the  same  house  as  Jack  Waring,  she  had  decided 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         85 

nothing  save  that  he  could  not  be  allowed  to  walk  through 
the  world  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  saying  that  she  or  her 
friends  were  "bad  style." 

A  week  later  she  arrived  at  Croxton  Hall  and  explored 
the  terrain  for  the  engagement.  Waring,  she  learned,  came 
once  a  year  into  Buckinghamshire  from  old  habit,  because 
he  had  hunted  with  the  Croxton  from  Oxford;  he  was  re- 
turning to  chambers  by  the  breakfast-car  train  next  day. 
She  had  few  hours  for  making  her  effect;  and  they  were 
further  reduced  when  Jack  drove  up  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  late  to  find  that  the  house-party  was  already  dressed 
and  busily  adjusting  its  relationships.  Lady  Pentyre  scram- 
bled through  half  a  dozen  introductions  in  as  many  seconds 
and  hurried  her  guests  into  the  dining-room,  without  giving 
him  time  to  dress  or  even  to  see  who  was  there;  Barbara, 
standing  a  little  behind  the  others,  escaped  notice;  and, 
when  she  found  herself  seated  by  prearrangement  at  his 
side,  she  had  to  introduce  herself. 

"I  believe  you're  a  great  friend  of  Jim's,"  she  began. 
"He's  a  cousin  of  mine,  and  I've  often  heard  him  speak  of 
you." 

Jack  was  already  disconcerted  by  having  to  dine  un- 
washed and  in  a  tweed  suit;  and  his  embarrassment  in- 
creased as  he  guessed  at  her  identity.  For  a  while  he  would 
only  talk  disjointedly  of  Jim  Loring,  varying  his  conversa- 
tion with  apologies  for  his  tweed  suit ;  he  had  been  kept  late 
with  a  consultation,  and,  when  he  began  to  change  in  the 
train,  two  women  got  in  at  Bletchley.  Barbara  fastened  on 
the  consultation  and  with  deft  questions  encouraged  him  to 
talk  about  his  work.  She  had  sat  next  to  so  many  shy  young 
men  at  official  dinners  that  she  could  put  any  one  at  his  ease. 
At  her  prompting  and  wholly  unconscious  of  it,  Jack  dis- 
coursed of  the  bar  in  general  and  his  own  practice  in  par- 
ticular for  three-quarters  of  the  dinner  and  was  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  her  so  intelligent  a  listener. 


86  LADY  LILITH 

"I  oughtn't  to  be  here,  really,"  he  confided.  "I  haven't 
the  time  or  energy  for  this  kind  of  thing,  but  the  Croxton's 
an  old  love  of  mine,  I've  not  missed  a  Croxton  ball  since  I 
was  at  Oxford."  He  was  tempted  to  describe  his  first  Crox- 
ton ball ;  but  it  was  a  long  story,  and  he  discovered  that  he 
had  been  monopolizing  the  conversation.  "You're  a  great 
dancer,  I  expect?"  he  said  with  the  indulgence  of  early  mid- 
dle age.  "I  look  forward  to  watching  you  to-night." 

Lady  Barbara  began  to  shake  her  head  and  then  stopped 
with  closed  eyes  and  a  bitten  lip. 

"I'm  not  going,"  she  answered.  "I've  had  such  an  awful 
headache  all  day." 

"I'm  so  sorry!  I  don't  dance  myself,  but  I  hoped  you 
might  spare  me  one  or  two  for  sitting  out.  If  you're  inter- 
ested in  law — the  bar's  by  no  means  the  dry-as-dust  life 
some  people  think." 

Talking  to  her  was  so  easy  that  Jack  had  half  determined 
to  ask  if  he  might  have  supper  with  her.  Of  the  rest  of 
the  evening  he  could  dispose  comfortably  enough  by  gossip- 
ing with  old  Gervaise,  who  had  been  in  his  father's  regiment, 
and  the  other  veterans  of  the  hunt.  Lady  Pentyre  never 
regarded  him  as  a  dancing  man  in  making  up  her  numbers. 
It  would  not  be  half  so  easy  to  find  common  ground  with 
Sally  Farwell  or  Grace  Pentyre ;  without  meaning  to  be  un- 
sympathetic, he  felt  that  Lady  Barbara  might  have  chosen 
any  other  night  of  the  year  for  her  headache. 

"It'll  be  better,  when  you  get  there,"  he  prophesied  en- 
couragingly and  wondered  whether  she  would  mistake  his 
convenience  for  her  own  triumph.  So  far  he  had  not  looked 
at  her,  but  he  now  stole  a  glance  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  and  saw  a  straight,  thin  nose,  haggard  cheeks  that  had 
a  pathetic  fascination  for  him  and  a  mouth  which  drooped 
wistfully ;  the  lips  were  red,  her  eyes  a  velvet  black,  fringed 
with  long  black  lashes  and  shaded  with  dark  rings,  changing 
colour  and  size  like  a  cat's.  The  white,  hollow  cheeks  con> 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         87 

bined  with  the  dark  eyes  and  red  lips  to  suggest  ravaging 
dissipation  or  ill-health ;  he  would  never  be  surprised  to  be 
told  that  she  was  consumptive.  And  he  could  not  under- 
stand how  any  one  so  thin  could  be  so  attractive. 

She  caught  him  watching  her  and  forced  a  smile. 

"I've  only  been  doing  rather  too  much  lately,  I  expect," 
she  said. 

"That  I  can  well  believe.  But  after  dinner — I  say,  have 
you  had  anything  to  eat?" 

"I  had  some  melon.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  very  hungry.  If  I 
don't  go,  don't  tell  Aunt  Kathleen — Lady  Knightrider,  you 
know — will  you?  She  gave  me  this  dress  specially  and 
she'd  be  so  awfully  disappointed." 

"Jolly  dress,"  Jack  answered,  looking  unanalytically  at 
something  which  he  could  only  remember  afterwards  as 
being  generally  black — with  bits  of  silver  here  and  there — 
and  little  transparent  triangular  pendants  hanging  down 
from  shoulder  to  elbow.  "I  hope  you'll  be  able  to  come." 

"I  shan't  be  able  to  dance,"  she  sighed.  "Every  time  I 
turn  my  head — Oo  !  I  did  it  then !  It's  like  a  red-hot  needle 
at  the  back  of  the  eyes.  .  .  ."  She  picked  up  her  gloves 
and  held  out  a  hand,  as  the  butler  announced  that  the  cars 
were  at  the  door.  "I'll  say  good-night  and  good-bye.  I 
hope  you'll  enjoy  yourself.  And  I  hope  I've  not  been  too 
unutterably  boring." 

Jack  felt  her  hand  pulling  gently  against  his. 

"When  I'm  trying  to  persuade  you  to  come  on  with  us?" 
he  asked. 

Lady  Barbara  shut  her  eyes  in  a  second  spasm  of  pain. 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to?" 

"If  you're  up  to  it." 

"I  will,  if  you  want  me  to,"  she  promised. 

For  many  years  longer  than  Jack  could  remember,  the 
Croxton  Ball  had  taken  place  in  the  vast  and  half-derelict 
"King's  Arms,"  once  famous,  with  its  long  coffee-room  and 


88  LADY  LILITH 

unlimited  stabling,  as  the  best  posting-house  in  the  county 
and  the  beginning  of  the  last  stage  for  coaches  running  from 
the  east  and  northeast  coast  through  Oxford  to  South  Wales 
and  the  west.  Once  a  year  the  dingy  grey-stone  hotel,  filling 
one  side  of  the  market-place,  blazed  with  unaccustomed 
light;  and  the  barrack  of  stables  behind  awoke  to  welcome 
the  procession  of  tightly-packed  cars  that  explored  their  way 
with  long  white  fingers  down  the  broad,  uneven  village  street. 

Jack  changed  his  clothes  and  joined  a  shivering  group  by 
the  fire  in  the  Commercial  Room.  Lady  Barbara  was  sit- 
ting apart,  sniffing  a  bottle  of  salts  and  gently  repelling  those 
who  tried  to  engage  her  for  a  dance. 

"She  oughtn't  to  have  come,"  murmured  Lady  Pentyre, 
who  neither  understood  nor  forgave  her  son  for  this  elev- 
enth-hour addition.  After  the  disgraceful  episode  of  the 
poker-party,  she  had  vowed  never  to  have  the  girl  in  her 
house  again ;  and  these  later  scandals  were  no  recommenda- 
tion to  leniency.  But,  before  she  could  hint  at  her  objec- 
tions, she  was  told  that  the  invitation  had  already  been  is- 
sued. "If  she's  beginning  a  chill  or  anything " 

Jack  crossed  to  the  distant  chair  and  was  welcomed  with 
a  smile. 

"How  nice  you  look  in  that  coat !"  Lady  Barbara  cried. 
"Are  those  the  Croxton  buttons?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  May  I  sit  and  talk,  if  you  didn't  have  too 
much  of  me  at  dinner?  I  feel  responsible  for  bringing  you 
here,  you  know." 

"But  I  love  doing  what  people  ask  me !  It's  my  greatest 
self-indulgence.  When  are  they  going  to  begin,  and  what's 
all  the  fuss  about  in  the  hall  ?" 

A  babble  of  angry  voices  floated  through  the  open  door — 
criticism,  suggestions  and  conflicting  orders.  The  Secre- 
tary came  in  frowning  and  snatched  at  all  members  of  the 
Committee  within  reach. 

"I'll  never  go   to  those  people   again!"   he    thundered. 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         89 

"After  all  these  years,  too.  Band  hung  up  on  the  road. 
Wrong  train.  They  won't  be  here  for  half  an  hour!" 

A  murmur  of  disappointment  swelled  through  the  room, 
eddying  round  the  hall  and  rising  from  group  to  group  on 
the  stairs  and  in  the  ball-room. 

Lady  Barbara  sat  up  alert,  without  any  trace  of  headache 
or  fatigue.  The  red  lips  were  parted  expectantly,  with  a 
gleam  of  small  white  teeth. 

"I'll  play!" 

She  darted  from  her  chair,  humming  to  herself  and  only 
pausing  to  crumple  her  scarf  into  a  ball  and  to  toss  it  with 
her  gloves  to  Jack.  He  caught  it  mechanically,  wonder- 
ingly.  In  a  moment  the  grave-voiced  girl  with  the  tragic 
eyes  and  hint  of  consumption  had  transformed  herself  into 
something  untamed,  with  shining  eyes  and  irresponsible 
restlessness.  He  listened  to  her  voice  growing  fainter  on 
the  stairs,  then  looked  with  some  embarrassment  at  the 
crumpled  scarf  and  gloves. 

"Sometime,  somehow,  somewhere — 
How  should  I  know  or  care? — 
It  is   written  above 
That  fortune  and  love 
Are  waiting  for  me  somewhere.  .  ." 

The  strict  waltz  rhythm  was  slightly  modified  to  give 
scope  to  the  voice;  but  no  one  had  began  to  dance  when 
Jack  went  upstairs,  and  Lady  Barbara  had  to  break  off  and 
say: 

"Do  begin,  some  one!" 

"We  want  to  hear  you  sing,"  murmured  a  diffident  voice. 

"Rubbish!     What  d'you  like?    Ragtime?    A  waltz?" 

"When  you  are  in  love, 
All  the  world  is  fair; 
Hearts   are   light   with   laughter   gay; 
Roses, — roses  all  the  way.  .  ." 

Bobby  Pentyre  and  Sally  Farwell  edged  through  the 
door;  Summertown  and  his  partner  followed,  and  within 


90  LADY  LILITH 

two  minutes  the  room  was  three-quarters  full.  Jack 
squeezed  his  way  forward  Tor  a  better  view.  Lady  Barbara 
played  tirelessly,  modulating  from  waltz  to  waltz,  humming 
a  line  here,  whistling  two  bars  there,  until  the  Master  panted 
up  to  the  piano  and  cried  "time."  She  laughed  and  sat  back  on 
the  music-stool,  softly  fingering  the  keys  and  looking  round 
the  ball-room  to  see  who  was  there.  Jack  stood  self-con- 
sciously stranded  by  the  door,  assuring  himself  of  the  line  of 
his  tie,  pulling  down  his  waistcoat  and  glancing  at  the  hang 
of  his  knee-breeches.  Her  eyes  met  his,  and  she  smiled. 

"Say  when  you  want  me  to  begin  again,"  she  called  out. 

"Give  us  just  a  moment/'  begged  the  Secretary. 

She  struck  a  chord  and  threw  "Lord  Rendel"  at  them 
with  such  tragic  intensity  that,  at  the  end,  Summertown 
raised  a  husky  view-holloa  of  applause  and  the  decorous 
group  at  the  door  clapped  noiselessly.  Jack  always  freely 
confessed  that  he  knew  nothing  of  music,  but  he  felt  bathed 
in  delightful  irresponsibility,  as  Lady  Barbara  mingled  old 
English  ballads  with  plantation  songs  and  jolting  ragtime 
with  waltzes  which  seemed  to  draw  his  heart  out  of  his 
body.  She  was  gloriously  free  from  self-consciousness. 
After  two  false  starts,  which  were  not  lost  on  her,  he 
crossed  the  room  in  the  wake  of  a  little  party  which-  went 
to  beg  for  its  favourite  tunes. 

"Awfully  good  of  you  to  play  like  this,"  he  said,  as  the 
others  edged  away.  "I  hope  you're  not  making  the  head- 
ache worse?" 

"I  love  making  people  happy."  She  stretched  out  her 
foot  and  pulled  a  chair  beside  her  stool.  "Tell  me  what 
you'd  like  me  to  play.  D'you  know  "Deirdre  of  the  Sor- 
rows" ?  Not  the  play,  but  the  waltz.  Little  O'Rane  wrote 
it.  You  know  him,  I  expect,  he's  a  great  friend  of  my 
cousin  Jim."  At  the  first  chords  of  the  waltz,  couples  from 
all  round  the  room  rose  and  began  to  dance.  Jack  threw 
one  leg  over  the  other  and  pushed  his  chair  a  short  way 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         91 

back,  faintly  and  belatedly  embarrassed  to  find  himself  ma- 
rooned on  the  dais  by  her  side.  "Mr.  Waring " 

"Yes?" 

"I  want  to  ask  you  one  question.  You  needn't  answer  it, 
unless  you  like.  .  .  .  And  then  we'll  leave  it  alone.  I'm  not 
as  bad  as  you  expected  ?" 

Though  he  had  warned  himself  at  the  beginning  of  din- 
ner to  be  untiringly  on  his  guard,  Jack  looked  up  with  a 
start.  She  was  absorbed  in  the  music ;  her  head  was  bowed, 
and  she  only  raised*  it  to  glance  with  half-closed  eyes  at  the 
dancers,  occasionally  concentrating  on  one  couple  and  regu- 
lating her  time  by  theirs. 

"You've  answered  your  own  question.  Eather  inade- 
quately," he  added. 

"Thank  you  ...  I  wish  you  danced!  You're  missing 
such  a  lot !" 

"Am  I?  Lady  Barbara,  why  on  earth  did  you  ask  me 
that?" 

Her  head  drooped  lower  over  the  keys. 

"Because  it  hurt  so !"  she  whispered  tremulously.  "Am  I 
so  vulgar?" 

"Do  you  imagine  you're  quoting  me?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Waring,  be  honest!  You  despised  me  before 
you  met  me.  Do  you  now  ?" 

"It's  the  last  thing  I  should  dream  of  doing." 

"Well,  wasn't  it  rather  unfair — before  you  even  knew 
me?  It's  done  me  a  lot  of  harm  .  .  .  and  it  hurt  so  ter- 
ribly. If  you  were  just  to  say  you  were  sorry ?" 

Her  humility  was  so  unexpected  as  to  be  bewildering. 

"My  dear  Lady  Barbara,  I've  only  seen  you  once  before!" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  did  say  something  about  you  then ;  I  criti- 
cized the  people  you  went  about  with,  if  you're  referring  to 
that." 

"Then  you  don't  despise  me?" 

"You're  the  greatest  revelation  I've  ever  had." 


92  LADY  LILITH 

As  the  waltz  quickened  to  the  coda,  a  stout,  flamboyant 
figure  appeared  in  the  doorway,  attended  by  a  sallow  escort 
armed  with  music-cases  and  instruments.  The  Secretary 
ended  a  warm  exchange  of  invective  to  cross  the  room  and 
thank  Lady  Barbara.  Refusing  to  give  an  encore  to  the 
waltz,  she  bowed  to  Jack  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Half-way  down  the  stairs  he  overtook  her  and  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  sit  out  the  next  dance  with  her. 

"We  can  hardly  leave  it  like  this,  can  we  ?"  he  urged. 

"Like  what  ?  ,1  must  get  some  air !  My  head  will  burst, 
if  I  don't!" 

She  ran  across  the  hall,  rattled  at  the  door-handle  and 
hurried  into  the  Market  Square.  The  December  night  air 
lashed  him  like  a  jet  of  icy  water  and  cut  through  his 
clothes ;  thirty  yards  ahead,  Lady  Barbara  was  running  with 
arms  outstretched  and  jumping  from  side  to  side  over  the 
grey-black  puddles  of  dull,  frozen  water.  A  group  of 
chauffeurs  by  the  village  pound  removed  their  pipes  and 
watched  her;  then  replaced  them;  then  removed  them  a 
second  time  as  a  second  figure,  in  pink  coat  and  knee- 
breeches,  pounded  along  the  echoing  street.  Once  she 
glanced  back  on  hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps;  then  ran 
on  without  changing  her  pace.  They  had  overshot  the  last 
house  and  were  facing  an  unhedged  expanse  of  roots  and 
crisp  furrows  before  he  overtook  her. 

"I  say,  what  are  you  doing?"  he  panted,  angry  at  being 
made  conspicuous  by  her  aimless  freak. 

Lady  Barbara  pressed  a  hand  to  her  side,  breathing 
quickly.  Her  hair  had  blown  into  disorder,  her  bosom  was 
rising  and  falling;  and  once  she  kicked  off  a  shoe  to  caress 
a  bruised  foot,  balancing  herself  with  her  other  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Impulse,"  she  answered. 

By  moonlight  her  eyes  were  black;  and,  as  she  panted 
gently,  her  parted  lips  and  rounded  cheeks  made  a  child  of 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         93 

her.  It  was  at  least  her  third  incarnation  since  eight  o'clock, 
but  Jack  had  lost  strict  count.  As  she  squeezed  the  pebble 
out  of  her  shoe,  he  noticed  the  provocative  whiteness  of  her 
shoulders  and  the  softness  of  her  hair.  His  own  pink  coat 
and  knee-breeches  added  the  last  touch  to  his  discomfiture; 
and  he  knew  that  he  could  never  equal  her  in  creating  the 
unconventional  in  order  to  master  it. 

"I  was  afraid  your  head  might  have  made  you  faint,"  he 
murmured,  consciously  fatuous. 

"It  was  only  partly  my  head.  Sometimes  .  .  .  Did  you 
see  "Justice"?  You  remember  the  man  in  solitary  confine- 
ment? He  knew  he  mustn't  pound  on  the  door;  he  knew 
he'd  be  punished,  if  he  did.  He  pounded  all  the  same.  .  .  . 
I've  got  too  much  vitality;  I  seem  sometimes  as  if  I'm  in 
prison.  .  .  ."  She  shivered  and  gave  a  slight  cough.  "Is 
it  very  cold?" 

"Not  more  than  ten  degrees  of  frost.  I  thought  of  bring- 
ing you  a  cloak,  but  I  was  afraid  of  losing  you.  If  you  don't 
come  back  at  once,  impulse  will  land  you  in  double  pneu- 
monia." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and  began  to  walk,  with 
a  slight  limp,  back  to  the  hotel. 

"We  had  a  gipsy  in  the  family,  though  no  one's  ever  al- 
lowed to  mention  her,"  she  announced  abruptly.  "D'you  call 
me  pretty  ?  I  think  you  would,  rather.  Val  Arden  says  I'm  the 
'haggard  Venus.'  Well,  any  looks  we've  got  come  from  her." 

"With  a  dash  of  temperament  thrown  in.  Suppose  we 
go  a  bit  faster  and  then  look  for  a  fire?  You're  quite  well 
enough  to  dance  now." 

"But  I'd  sooner  talk  to  you.  A  girl  told  me  the  other  day 
that  you  were — what  was  the  word  ?  'sticky' ;  you  never  had 
anything  to  say,  you  were  prim  and  old  maidish " 

"I'm  no  good  at  ordinary  social  patter,"  he  interrupted. 
"But  you'd  hardly  apply  that  term  to  our  conversation  to- 
night." 


94  LADY  LILITH 

They  strode  incongruously  down  the  broad  village  street, 
past  the  group  of  expectant  chauffeurs  and  into  an  ill- venti- 
lated box  described  as  the  "reading-room."  Both  were  emo- 
tionally out  of  breath,  and  the  lights  of  the  hotel  made  Jack 
self-conscious ;  he  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  her  and  waited 
for  the  next  change.  Wistful  appeal  passed  into  efferves- 
cent irresponsibility;  the  self-possession  of  a  woman  of  the 
world  alternated  with  the  radiant  joyousness  of  a  child.  .  .  . 
And  six  months  earlier  she  had  left  a  German  Jew's  ornate 
carnival  to  drive  with  a  sodden  debauchee  in  a  stolen  car 
and  had  impaled  an  unknown  chauffeur  on  the  grey  angle 
of  a  jutting  wall  in  Hertfordshire.  And  there  was  the  aero- 
plane accident;  and  the  poker-party;  and  a  dozen  other 
things.  .  .  .  His  glance  held  admiration  as  well  as  curiosity, 
and  she  smiled  with  glowing  friendliness. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  dance  at  all?"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  come  here  for  that.  .  .  .  Now  I'm  going  to  pay 
you  a  compliment.  I  got  myself  invited  because  I  heard  you 
were  coming;  I  wanted  to  give  you  a  chance  of  judging  me 
at  first  hand.  There's  an  opportunity  for  returning  the  com- 
pliment, if  you  care  to  take  it." 

Jack  looked  at  her  with  a  surprise  which  he  tried  to  veil, 
as  he  reminded  himself  again  that  he  must  be  on  his  guard. 

"I  only  hinted  that  your  friends  weren't  good  enough  for 
you,"  he  answered.  "Knowing  who  you  were  and  the  posi- 
tions your  father  had  held " 

"Dear  Jack,  don't  drag  in  father !  Isn't  that  what  I  have 
to  fight  against?  Having  my  personality  submerged  by  his 
dead  pomp  and  glory?" 

Her  use  of  his  Christian  name  startled  him;  and  she 
watched  with  amusement  his  stiff  attempt  not  to  seem 
startled. 

"I'd  sooner  think  of  you  as  Lord  Crawleigh's  daughter 
thin  as  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann's  friend." 

Her  eyes  half  closed,  and  she  looked  at  him  through  the 
long  black  lashes. 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE         95 

"I  believe  you're  falling  in  love  with  me." 

Jack  lazily  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette,  dusted 
imaginary  specks  of  ash  from  his  breeches  and  rose  slowly 
to  his  feet. 

"I  was  only  thinking  what  I  should  feel  about  you,  if  you 
were  my  sister,"  he  said.  "Ought  we  to  be  going  upstairs? 
Lady  Pentyre's  rather  concerned  about  you." 

"I'll  reassure  her,"  said  Lady  Barbara.  "Don't  bother 
to  come  up;  you  won't  be  dancing." 

Though  she  had  a  reserve  of  self-control  for  scenic  emer- 
gencies, he  had  snubbed  her  so  wantonly  that  she  darted 
like  a  black  and  silver  moth  out  of  the  room  before  he  could 
mark  a  change  of  expression.  Jack  followed  in  time  to  see 
her  locate  Lady  Pentyre  and  take  the  chair  by  her  side.  The 
warm,  scented  air  of  the  ball-room  struck  and  flushed  his 
cheeks  like  the  heavy  breath  of  a  hot-house.  Summertown, 
waltzing  by,  disengaged  one  hand  and  whistled  shrilly  on 
his  fingers  above  the  boom  and  wail  of  the  band. 

"Missing  two,  Babs  ?"  he  called  out. 

Lady  Barbara  pressed  her  hand  against  her  eyes,  then 
drew  it  away  and  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  dancing  to-night,"  she  answered. 

Lady  Pentyre  turned  to  her  with  mingled  anxiety  and  im- 
patience. 

"Aren't  you  feeling  any  better  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  am.  When  I  stand,  the  floor  goes  up 
and  down;  and,  when  I  sit  down,  the  room  goes  gently 
round  me." 

Jack  was  leaning  aimlessly  against  the  door,  and  Lady 
Pentyre  beckoned  to  him.  She  had  no  intention  of  leaving 
her  son  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  with  Sally  Farwell ;  and, 
if  she  told  him  or  young  Summertown  to  take  Lady  Barbara 
home,  she  would  next  hear  that  all  three  had  fallen  down 
a  shaft  in  Durham. 

"Mr.  Waring,  you're  not  dancing!     Dp  you  think  you 


96  LADY  LILITH 

could  find  one  of  the  cars  and  take  this  child  back  to  bed? 
I  hardly  like  to  send  her  alone,  you  know,  and  every  one 
here  has  a  party  of  her  own  to  look  after." 

Jack  bowed  with  adequate  graciousness,  but  Lady  Bar- 
bara intervened  with  a  vigorous  refusal. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  dragging  him  away,"  she  exclaimed. 
"This  is  the  only  ball  he  ever  comes  to ;  and  he's  been  look- 
ing after  me  so  much  that  he  hasn't  had  time  to  see  any  of 
his  friends." 

"But  he  can  be  back  within  an  hour,"  Lady  Pentyre  urged. 
"It's  still  quite  early." 

Lady  Barbara  looked  uncertainly  at  Jack,  waiting  for  him 
to  become  more  inviting.  His  face  expressed  no  concern, 
and  he  was  patiently  gaining  time  by  consulting  his  watch 
and  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  them,  as  though  he 
had  no  personal  interest  in  the  decision. 

"Would  that  be  agreeable  to  you  ?"  he  asked  her  at  length. 

"I  don't  feel  that  I  have  any  right  to  spoil  your  evening." 

"Illness  is  hardly  within  your  control,  is  it  ?" 

She  walked  downstairs  with  a  novel  sense  of  failure  and 
a  misgiving  that  she  had  overestimated  his  stupidity;  yet  a 
man  must  be  more  than  ordinarily  stupid  not  to  appreciate 
her  after  the  trouble  that  she  had  taken.  Insisting  on  an 
open  car,  she  settled  herself  in  one  corner  and  looked 
thoughtfully  at  her  companion's  reflection  in  the  jolting  mir- 
ror of  the  wind-screen.  Valentine  Arden,  who  allowed  dis- 
paragement to  become  a  disease,  told  her  to  her  face  that 
she  had  genius;  George  Oakleigh  had  said  that  she  had 
"the  clearest-cut  personality  of  her  time."  And  these  things 
were  industriously  repeated  to  her. 

Rather  Lord  Crawleigh's  daughter  than  Sir  Adolf  Erck- 
mann's  friend.  .  .  .  But  Lord  Crawleigh's  world  had  no 
place  for  any  woman  who  was  above  the  average.  In  Can- 
ada, in  Ireland  and  in  India  she  had  tasted  greater  personal 
success  before  she  was  sixteen  than  London  could  offer  her 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONJDAINE         97 

in  a  life-time.  She  had  seen  the  government  of  India  at 
very  close  quarters ;  and,  after  that,  it  was  impossible  to  feel 
Sonia  Dainton's  elation  at  bobbing  to  Eoyalty  at  the  Bodmin 
Lodge  ball  in  Ascot  week.  At  other  times  and  in  other 
places,  dusty,  long  streets,  dazzling  white  and  quivering  with 
heat,  had  been  cleared  for  her  and  lined  with  picked  native 
troops ;  in  an  Empire  crowded  with  immemorial  soveranties 
she  had  been  the  only  daughter  of  a  man  who  was  vice- 
gerent of  the  Emperor-King. 

"You  spoke  too  soon  in  saying  you  didn't  despise  me," 
she  murmured. 

They  had  covered  but  two  of  the  ten  miles,  and  Jack 
instinctively  avoided  altercation.  He  was  no  longer  inter- 
ested in  a  girl  who  deliberately  invited  herself  to  the  same 
house,  singled  him  out  and  detached  him,  in  an  open  car 
and  a  north-east  wind,  to  pick  a  quarrel  or  justify  herself. 

"If  you're  feeling  ill,  why  don't  you  try  to  go  to  sleep 
instead  of  making  conversation?"  he  suggested. 

"I'm  not  making  conversation!"  she  answered  impa- 
tiently. "You  attacked  me  on  such  slender  evidence  that  I 
was  wondering  whether  you'd  any  better  excuse  for  attack- 
ing people  like  Sir  Adolf,  who's  a  very  fine  musician " 

"And  an  impossible  bounder,"  Jack  interrupted.  "My 
father  pilled  him  at  his  club  ten  years  ago;  if  he  put  up 
again,  I'd  pill  him ;  if  he  got  in,  I'd  resign" 

"And  I  suppose  you'd  'pill'  Villon  and  Benvenuto  Cel- 
lini and  Verlaine " 

"I  would,  if  they  were  friends  of  Erckmann,"  Jack 
answered  cheerfully. 

She  shivered  and  lapsed  into  silence.  Talking  to  Jack 
was  like  explaining  colour  to  a  blind  man.  She  had  never 
sought  out  the  Erckmann  circle ;  it  was  one  of  innumerable 
circles  which  a  connoisseur  in  life  patronized  and  sampled 
for  its  distinctive  atmosphere.  Her  god-father,  Dick  Frey- 
ton,  had  kept  a  string  of  race-horses  at  Oxford  and  taken  a 


98  LADY  LILITH 

double  first ;  he  had  dined  with  the  Queen  one  day  and  enter- 
tained a  party  of  comedians  and  jockeys  the  next;  he  had 
been  a  gentleman-rider  and  an  ambassador,  a  soldier  and  a 
collector  of  early  printed  Bibles,  a  competent  sportsman 
and  a  more  than  competent  poet.  Touching  life  at  every 
angle,  there  was  an  Elizabethan  spaciousness  about  him; — 
Loring's  father  did  not  forbid  him  the  house  because  Bes- 
sie Galton  took  her  company  to  Liverpool  and  he  invited 
them  all  to  stay  with  him  at  Poolcup.  Freyton  was  too  big 
to  be  compromised.  And  the  world  had  developed  so  fast 
that  nowadays  a  woman  could  touch  life  at  as  many  angles ; 
for  some  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do.  The  queens  of 
the  salon  were  dead,  the  political  hostesses  were  dying. 
There  was  room  for  one  universalist. 

They  drove  to  the  lodge  of  Croxton  Hall  in  silence.  It 
was  only  when  she  saw  him  dropping  asleep  that  she  fanned 
the  discussion  to  life. 

"It's  men  like  you  who  kill  art  in  this  country,"  she 
sighed. 

"I  can  never  see  why  there  should  be  a  special  code  of 
morals  for  a  fellow  because  he  grows  his  hair  long  and 
plays  the  fiddle,"  Jack  answered,  as  he  helped  her  out  of 
the  car  and  rang  the  bell. 

While  he  explained  their  return  to  the  butler,  Lady  Bar- 
bara let  fall  her  cloak  into  a  chair  and  walked  to  a  glowing 
fire  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  In  the  fender  stood  a  tureen  of 
soup  and  an  urn  of  cocoa ;  behind  her  a  big  table  was  invit- 
ingly set  with  sandwiches,  cake,  fruit,  syphons  and  decan- 
ters. Jack  watched  her  for  a  moment  and  then  explored 
the  table  critically. 

"Is  there  anything  you'd  like  me  to  bring  you  ?"  he  asked 
as  he  chose  a  cigar  and  poured  himself  a  brandy  and  soda. 
"Don't  forget  you've  had  no  supper." 

She  looked  at  him  over  one  shoulder  and  sighed  con- 
temptuously. 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE        99 

"How  characteristic !  The  indecent  irregularity  of  miss- 
ing a  meal!  I  eat  because  I  love  nice  things;  one  gets  a 
new  emotion  sometimes.  When  we  were  at  Ottawa,  father 
took  me  down  to  Washington,  and  one  of  the  secretaries 
at  our  embassy  fell  in  love  with  me.  We  met  at  twelve 
and  he  was  in  love  with  me  by  a  quarter  past.  I  suppose 
he  was  a  man  of  method,  like  you,  and  never  declared  his 
passion  under  half  an  hour,  so  for  five  minutes  we  talked 
about  food,  and  he  asked  me  if  I'd  ever  tasted  Baltimore 
crab-flake.  I  hadn't.  His  car  was  at  the  door  of  the  chan- 
cery, we  both  got  in  without  a  word;  at  12:23  we  were 
flying  down  Connecticut  Avenue.  We  drove  to  Baltimore 
without  a  stop,  had  our  crab-flake  and  returned  to  Washing- 
ton in  time  for  me  to  have  a  good  rest  before  dinner.  When 
father  began  looking  for  me,  some  one  explained  that  I'd 
been  taken  to  see  the  Congressional  Library,  and  every- 
thing was  all  right  till  the  papers  next  day  came  out  with 
great  head-lines — 'Breakneck  Race  for  a  Crab-Flake/ 
'Just  Bully,  Says  British  Governor-General's  Daughter/ 
Then  there  was  the  usual  unpleasantness.  .  .  .  But  the 
crab-flake  was  a  new  emotion."  She  turned  from  the  fire 
and  joined  him  at  the  table.  "If  I  start  eating  caviar,  I 
never  stop." 

The  butler  returned  to  announce  that  her  maid  had  gone 
to  bed  and  to  ask  whether  she  should  be  called. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  thanks,"  she  answered.  "I'm  feeling 
much  better."  She  had  talked  herself  into  good-humour 
and,  when  they  were  alone  again,  she  looked  at  Jack  with  a 
smile.  "Are  you  enjoying  yourself?  You  look  so  bored. 
What  shall  I  do  to  amuse  you  ?" 

She  pulled  a  chair  to  the  fire  and  beckoned  him  to  her  side. 

"I'm  sorry  to  seem  ungracious,"  said  Jack,  as  he  put 
down  his  empty  glass,  "but  I've  been  commissioned  to  send 
you  to  bed." 

"But  the  others  won't  be  back  for  hours !" 


ioo  LADY  LILITH 

"Exactly.  Barring  the  servants,  we're  alone  in  the  house, 
and  it  wouldn't  look  well  for  us  to  bolt  away  from  the  ball 
and  then  sit  here  talking  all  night." 

Lady  Barbara  sprang  from  the  chair  and  faced  him  with 
amazement  in  her  eyes. 

"My  dear  creature,  do  you  imagine  you're  compromising 
me?" 

"That's  a  strong  word.  I'm  some  years  older  than  you, 
Lady  Barbara,"  he  added  meaningly. 

"But  if  you  knew " 

Jack  interrupted  her  with  a  shake  of  the  head. 

"If  you're  trying  to  tell  me  some  of  the  things  you  have 
done,  you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble.  I  used  to  think 
you  were  being  swept  off  your  feet  by  the  people  you  went 
about  with.  The  more  stories  you  tell  me,  the  more  I'm 
tempted  to  wonder  whether  you  don't  set  the  fashion. 
Some  one's  frightfully  to  blame  for  not  pulling  you  up, 
though  I  know  Jim  did  his  best.  Does  it  make  no  differ- 
ence to  you  when  a  man  like  that  refuses  to  have  you  inside 
his  house?" 

Lady  Barbara  walked  slowly  to  the  table. 

"You  must  apologize  for  that,  Mr.  Waring." 

She  imagined  that  she  was  contending  with  one  man  over 
a  single  hasty  sentence;  but  behind  Jack  stood  his  father, 
his  father's  regiment  and  his  father's  club,  all  honestly  con- 
servative and  gently  self-approving.  Behind  the  sentence 
there  lay  in  support  a  social  philosophy  framed  in  days 
before  England  was  corrupted  by  the  uncertain  morals  of 
the  east  and  the  uncouth  manners  of  the  west. 

"Isn't  it  true?"  demanded  Jack,  unabashed.  "He  cabled 
to  his  mother  from  Surinam  after  the  motor  smash  and 
that  inquest.  I  wasn't  told  the  exact  words,  but  you  haven't 
been  to  the  house  very  lately,  have  you?" 

He  was  so  certain  of  himself — he  was  always  so  certain 
of  himself — that  the  question  rang  out  like  a  taunt.  Lady 
Barbara  felt  her  self-control  weakening. 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE       101 

"And  your  informant?"  she  asked,  still  trying  not  to 
yield  ground. 

"I've  really  forgotten.  Obviously  no  one  in  the  family. 
So,  you  see,  there  must  be  several  people  who  know.  For 
what  it's  worth,  I  have  not  handed  the  story  on." 

"How  chivalrous ! — And  to  a  girl  that  you'd  never  met !" 

"I  didn't  want  Jim  to  be  mixed  up  in  a  fresh  scandal. 
And  you've  driven  this  country  near  enough  to  revolution 
as  it  is." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  was  starting  towards  the  stairs, 
when  an  unexpected  sound  stopped  him,  and  he  turned  to 
see  her  burying  her  face  in  her  hands.  It  was  a  surprising 
collapse  in  one  who  seemed  to  be  made  of  steel,  though  he 
wondered  whether  the  tears  were  an  artifice  or  a  novel 
indulgence  of  emotion. 

"You  didn't  mean  what  you  said !"  she  sobbed.  "Please 
say  you  were  only  punishing  me  for  taking  you  away  from 
the  ball !" 

"I've  not  the  least  desire  to  punish  you.  You've  got 
great  qualities;  you  were  charming  at  dinner,  you're  kind 
and  good-natured,  you  can  be  fascinating  when  you  like. 
And  then  you  spoil  all  you  are,  all  you  might  be  and  do,  by 
tricks  unworthy  of  a  chorus-girl.  Arranging  this  meeting 
at  all  to  smooth  one  ruffled  feather  of  your  vanity.  The 
sham  headache.  Calling  me  by  my  Christian  name  the  first 
time  we  meet.  Things  of  that  kind.  That's  not  the  grande 
dame,  Lady  Barbara." 

She  began  to  collect  her  gloves  and  cloak. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  with  trembling  lips.  "You  won't 
be  troubled  again." 

"If  you  were  sorry,  you  wouldn't  try  to  be  dramatic. 
Your  'curtain,'  like  your  repentance,  is  only  the  latest  form 
of  the  Baltimore  crab-flake — a  new  emotion,  a  new  indul- 
gence. .  .  .  Look  here,  I  shall  be  gone  before  you're  up  to- 
morrow; won't  you  part  friends?" 


102  LADY  LILITH 

He  crossed  the  hall  with  a  smile  and  held  out  his  hand 
without  fear  of  a  rebuff.  She  looked  at  him  and  had  to 
confess  herself  at  fault.  His  heavy  overcoat  was  hanging 
open,  and  in  his  knee-breeches  and  pink  coat  he  looked  slim 
and  boyish ;  he  was  a  booby  at  dinner  and  a  clod  at  the  ball ; 
Outside  his  own  profession  he  had  no  more  knowledge  or 
ideas  than  a  schoolboy.  Yet  she  submitted  to  his  criticism 
almost  in  silence. 

"Won't  you  part  friends  ?"  he  repeated. 

Lady  Barbara  could  not  let  him  ride  off  so  complacently. 
She  pressed  one  hand  to  her  side  and  groped  her  way  to  the 
table;  as  she  leaned  against  it,  the  friendliness  died  out  of 
his  smile. 

"I  shouldn't  do  that  again,  if  I  were  you,"  he  counselled, 
reverting  to  his  slightly  nasal  drawl ;  and  this  time  she 
could  have  cried  without  feigning,  for  she  was  tired  and 
humiliated  by  her  consistent  failure. 

"I  am  ill,"  she  protested.  "Needless  to  say,  you  don't 
believe " 

"My  dear  Lady  Barbara,  the  worst  of  taking  people  in  by 
lies  is  that  afterwards  they  refuse  to  be  taken  in  by  the 
truth.  That  always  means  a  dreadful  muddle  for  every- 
body." 

There  was  no  trace  of  anger  in  the  indolent  voice ;  a  lazy, 
superficial  smile  played  still  over  the  composed  face,  but  she 
felt  that  she  had  touched  his  vanity,  which  was  so  petty  that 
he  could  allow  no  one  even  to  chaff  him. 

"I  say,  you  are  revengeful,"  she  cried.  "Just  because,  in 
the  most  harmless  way " 

"I  don't  mind  any  one  inaking  the  most  complete  fool  of 
me — once,"  he  interrupted.  "A  very  moderate  sense  of 
humour  carries  that  off.  One  doesn't  want  to  make  a  habit 
of  it,  that's  all.  And  I  always  think  it's  a  perilous  thing  to 
begin  playing  with  the  truth." 

"So  you'll  never  believe  anything  I  say?" 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE       103 

"We're  so  very  unlikely  to  meet  that  it  hardly  matters. 
Won't  you  shake  hands?" 

She  held  out  the  tips  of  her  fingers  and,  as  he  released 
them,  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  He  noticed  that 
she  was  biting  her  lip  and  had  either  improved  her  acting 
or  lapsed  into  sincerity. 

"Are  you  like  Jim?"  she  asked.  "IXyou  despise  me  so 
much  that  you  refuse  to  meet  me?" 

He  looked  carelessly  at  his  sleeve,  but  she  refused  to  un- 
derstand the  movement  of  his  eyes. 

"I  should  be  honoured  to  meet  you.  Only  I  never  go 
anywhere.  Lady  Pentyre  and  Lady  Knightrider  are  about 
our  only  two  links." 

"And  I  suppose  Jim  will  have  me  turned  out  of  their 
houses,  when  he  comes  back.  If  you  knew  how  I  hated 
having  people  angry  with  me.  .  .  .  Will  you  meet  me,  if  I 
don't  have  any  of  my  objectionable  friends,  if  I'm  on  my 
best  behaviour " 

"I  don't  think  that  your  experience  of  my  society  can  be 
so  alluring  as  all  that,"  he  laughed. 

"I've  never  allowed  any  other  man  to  lecture  me  as 
you've  done!" 

"Ah,  but  you  invited  it.  You  don't  want  me  to  come 
merely  for  a  continuation  of  the  lecture." 

"Perhaps  it  won't  be  necessary." 

Her  voice  and  eyes  softened  appealingly — and  then  be- 
came charged  with  perplexity,  as  Jack  gently  removed  her 
fingers  from  his  sleeve. 

"Another  new  emotion,  Lady  Barbara?"  he  laughed. 
"You  won't  easily  convince  me  that  I've  changed  your  char- 
acter in  a  night." 

"You  interest  me,"  she  murmured,  with  a  puzzled  frown. 

"Ah,  that  rang  true !  But  I'm  no  good  at  the  modern  busi- 
ness of  discussing  people  with  themselves.  A  man  like  Val 


104  LADY  LILITH 

Arden  does  that  so  much  better.  .  .  .  Lady  Barbara,  are 
you  ever  going  to  say  good-night  to  me  ?" 

"In  a  minute.  Will  you  come  to  Connie  Maitland's  Con- 
sumptive Hospital  matinee  after  Christmas?  It's  at  the 
Olympic,  and  I'm  dancing  there.  I  do  want  you  to  appre- 
ciate me!" 

Jack  reflected  for  a  moment  and  then  smiled  lazily. 

"I'll  come  to  the  matinee,  if  you'll  promise  not  to  per- 
form," he  answered.  "If  I'm  not  in  court  ...  I  know  I'm 
old-fashioned,  but  I  call  it  intolerable  for  you  to  blacken 
your  eyes  and  rouge  your  face  and  make  sport  for  any  one 
who  cares  to  spend  a  guinea  or  two  for  the  chance  of  gap- 
ing at  you.  It  cheapens  you.  I'd  as  soon  put  on  tights  and  tie 
myself  in  knots  on  a  strip  of  carpet  outside  a  public-house." 

Barbara  leant  against  the  table  in  helpless  amazement. 

"You're  more  of  a  Philistine  than  my  own  father!"  she 
cried. 

Jack  smiled  imperturbably. 

"And  what  would  you  think  if  Lord  Crawleigh  came  to 
that  same  matinee  and  gave  a  display  of  juggling  with  bil- 
liard-balls?" 

"I  should  die  happy,"  Barbara  answered  with  a  gurgle  of 
laughter ;  then  more  seriously,  "But  why  on  earth  shouldn't 
he?  If  he  can  do  it,  if  the  thing's  all  right  in  itself,  why 
should  the  professionals  have  the  monopoly?  I'm  very 
good." 

"No  doubt.  But,  if  you  had  no  more  idea  of  dancing 
than  I  have,  people  would  still  flock  to  see  Lady  Barbara 
Neave.  Now  do  you  understand  why  I  loathe  the  whole 
life  you  lead?" 

When,  late  that  night,  she  thought  over  the  long  succes- 
sion of  snubs  and  insults,  Barbara  chose  this  as  the  most 
wounding.  She  had  recited  and  danced,  acted  and  sung  on 
occasions  innumerable,  always  hearing  and  feeling  that  she 
was  meeting  the  professionals  on  their  own  ground;  they 


APHRODITE  DEMI-MONDAINE       105 

themselves  hurried  to  congratulate  her,  and  she  fancied 
vaguely  that  she  was  paying  the  stage  a  delicate  compli- 
ment. 

"I've  never  been  told  that  I  hawked  my  father's  position 
about  for  advertisement,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"It's  the  result." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  again  and  again  held  out  his  hand. 

Lady  Barbara  locked  her  fingers  behind  her  back  and 
turned  away. 

"I  don't  like  the  feeling  that  you'll  ring  for  carbolic  as 
soon  as  I'm  out  of  the  room !"  she  said. 

"D  you  think  I  should?" 

"You  wouldn't  wait!"  she  cried,  springing  round  as 
though  she  were  going  to  strike  him. 

Jack's  growing  surprise  merged  in  a  novel  sense  of  help- 
lessness. The  girl  had  wholly  lost  control  of  herself.  Her 
pupils  were  dilated,  her  cheeks  white  with  anger  and  fa- 
tigue ;  one  hand  gripped  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  the  other 
rolled  her  handkerchief  into  a  tight  ball.  Not  for  the  first 
time  that  night  he  felt  that  a  man  had  only  himself  to  blame 
for  getting  on  to  such  terms  with  a  woman.  A  lion's  cage 
could  be  entered  or  avoided  at  will.  .  .  . 

Yet  he  could  not  escape  the  feeling  that  even  at  the  white- 
heat  of  passion  she  was  enjoying  her  scene. 

"Do  part  friends,"  he  begged.  "I  shouldn't  presume  to 
criticize  you,  if  I  didn't  think  you  worth  it.  I  ask  you — as 
a  favour — to  come  to  that  matinee  with  me.  Will  you?" 

Lady  Barbara  could  not  decide  whether  to  try  once  again 
to  punish  him;  she  dared  not  admit  that  she  was  daunted, 
but  she  was  certainly  puzzled..  At  one  moment  he  insulted 
her,  at  another  he  hoisted  her  on  to  a  pinnacle  and  mounted 
guard  below. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  come  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  should  love  you  to." 

"I'll  come,  if  you  want  me  to.  ...  Now  I  think  I  shall 


io6  LADY  LILITH 

go  to  bed.  It  would  be  a  tragedy  if  we  had  another  scene*. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Waring." 

"Goodnight,  Lady  Barbara." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  before  turning  to  the  stairs, 
still  undecided  whether  to  be  angry  or  intrigued.  Jack  went 
into  the  library,  chose  himself  a  book,  undressed  slowly, 
read  for  ten  minutes  and  dropped  instantly  asleep.  Lady 
Barbara  stood  for  many  minutes  in  front  of  a  long  mirror, 
admiring  the  black  and  silver  dress  and  watching  the  gleam 
of  her  arms  and  shoulders  as  she  moved.  Then  with  care- 
less impatience  she  loosened  the  dress,  leaving  it  to  fall  and 
lie  in  a  tumbled  heap  by  the  fire ;  shoe  followed  shoe,  stock- 
ing followed  stocking;  her  maid  would  repair  the  havoc  in 
the  morning,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  lapse  into  untidiness 
after  so  many  hours  of  Jack  Waring's  orderly  influence. 
Pulling  an  armchair  to  the  fire  she  began  to  brush  her  hair. 
Six  hours  before,  as  her  maid  had  brushed  it  for  her,  she 
had  rehearsed  the  meeting  with  Jack  up  to  the  point  when 
he  apologized  for  his  presumption  in  criticizing  her.  If 
only  she  had  stopped  then!  But  he  was  wholly  different 
from  her  preconception  of  him;  fully  as  'superior' — and 
with  as  little  reason — but  disappointing  as  an  intellectual 
antagonist;  he  was  commonplace  in  mind  and  yet  had  a 
certain  blunt  stubbornness  of  character,  a  refusal  to  be  stam- 
peded— together  with  an  indifference  which  still  piqued  her. 

And  the  indifference  was  broken  by  a  solicitude  which  he 
expressed  in  terms  to  earn  himself  a  horse- whipping.  Her 
eyes  were  blinded  by  a  hot  rush  of  shame  when  she  remem- 
bered her  gentle  words  and  appealing  voice  at  the  piano. 
"I'm  not  as  bad  as  you  expected?"  Humility  was  a  pleas- 
ant emotion,  but  a  losing  card.  At  their  next  encounter  .  .  . 

She  laid  aside  the  brush  and  sat  staring  into  the  fire.  The 
room  grew  gradually  colder,  but  she  did  not  notice  it.  Only 
when  her  ears  caught  the  sound  of  subdued  voices  on  the 
stairs  did  she  rouse  with  a  shiver  and  jump  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
NOBODY'S  FAULT 

"Cock  the  gun  that  is  not  loaded,  cook  the  frozen  dynamite  .  .  ." 
RUDYARD  KIPLING:     "Ex  DONA  FERENTES." 

As  a  matter  of  form  and  to  wash  her  hands  of  personal 
responsibility,  Lady  Pentyre  sent  next  morning  for  the  local 
doctor.  His  advice — to  take  things  quietly  for  a  few  days — 
enabled  Lady  Barbara  to  keep  her  promise  to  Jack  with  a 
good  conscience.  "They  say  that  I  have  been  doing  too 
much,"  she  told  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann,  "so  I'm  afraid  I 
shan't  be  able  to  come  to  your  party  on  Thursday  .  .  ."  On 
the  same  plea  she  wrote  to  Lady  Maitland,  promising  to 
attend  the  matinee  but  regretting  her  inability  to  play  an 
active  part.  When  she  had  taught  Jack  to  appreciate  her, 
it  would  be  time  enough  to  shew  him  that  her  friendship 
was  adequate  guarantee  for  her  friends. 

On  returning  to  London  she  angled  without  success  for 
a  first-hand  report  on  him.  To  her  earlier  half-dozen  words 
of  disparagement  Sonia  Dainton  added  a  break-up  price 
for  the  family.  The  Surinam  cable  precluded  consultation 
of  Amy  Loring,  and  Phyllis  Knightrider  could  only  affirm 
that  Jack  went  every  year  to  Raglan  for  a  few  days'  fish- 
ing— when  she  was  away  and  there  was  none  but  men 
present. 

"I  believe  he's  hopeless  with  a  mixed  party,"  she  went 
on.  "If  you  were  told  to  bring  a  man  anywhere,  you'd 
never  dream  of  asking  him." 

"Well,  I  think  that's  better  than  being,  the  first  man  that 

107 


io8  LADY  LILITH 

everybody  thinks  of,"  Barbara  answered.  "God  created 
Gerry  Deganway  to  be  the  eternal  fourteenth  at  dinner." 

"Val  Arden  once  said  that  God  invented  bridge  so  that 
Jack  Waring  might  say  he  didn't  play  it,"  Phyllis  went  on. 
"That  sums  him  up." 

Lady  Barbara  was  wondering  whether  the  unintelligent 
appreciation  of  such  a  man  was  worth  having,  when  Jack 
once  more  wantonly  put  himself  in  the  wrong.  After  writ- 
ing to  remind  her  of  the  day  and  time  of  the  matiiiee,  he 
had  gone  about  his  business.  She  mislaid  the  letter  and 
telephoned  to  his  chambers  to  find  out  where  she  was  to 
meet  him.  An  unwelcoming  Cockney  voice  answered  that 
Mr.  Waring  was  engaged  and  invited  her  to  leave  a  mes- 
sage. 

"I  won't  keep  him  a  moment,"  answered  Lady  Barbara. 

"Mr.  Waring  doesn't  like  being  called  to  the  'phone  when 
he's  got  a  consultation  on." 

She  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  angrier  with  Jack  for  his 
hide-bound  likes  and  dislikes  or  with  the  officious  clerk  for 
his  interference. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  say  that  Lady  Barbara 
Neave  wants  to  speak  to  him?"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  au- 
thority. 

"I'll  see,"  the  clerk  mumbled  reluctantly.  "Hold  on, 
please." 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  being  kept  waiting,  and  Jack 
or  the  clerk  kept  her  waiting  so  long  that  the  Exchange 
enquired  once  whether  she  had  finished  and  then  cut  short 
the  call.  She  hung  up  the  receiver  and  waited  for  the  con- 
nection to  be  re-established.  There  was  no  sound  for  five 
minutes ;  they  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  remember  her 
existence  or  to  recall  that  she  had  expressed  a  wish  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Waring,  that  she  had  been  ordered  to 
wait.  .  .  .  Taking  down  the  receiver,  she  repeated  the  num- 
ber. The  same  unwelcoming  Cockney  voice  greeted  her. 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  109 

"I  was  trying  to  speak  to  Mr.  Waring,"  she  explained, 
"but  I  was  cut  off." 

"Mr.  Waring's  ingiged — Oh,  were  you  the  lidy  who  just 
rang  up?  Mr.  Waring  says,  Would  you  be  kind  enough 
to  leave  a  message  ?" 

Half  an  hour  earlier  Lady  Barbara  had  been  undecided 
whether  to  telephone  herself  or  to  arrange  the  meeting 
through  her  maid.  Now  she  felt  that,  whatever  it  might 
cost  her,  she  must  speak  to  Jack  without  intermediaries. 
And,  if  he  were  engaged  in  a  consultation  (or  whatever  the 
absurd  thing  was  called),  so  much  the  better. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  leave  a  message/'  she  answered.  "I 
want  to  speak  to  him  privately." 

The  new  attack  seemed  only  to  consolidate  the  hateful 
clerk's  already  strong  position. 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  might  be  business.  Mr.  Waring  never 
speaks  to  any  one  privately  on  the  'phone." 

"Will  you  kindly  ask  him  to  make  an  exception,  then?" 

"I'm  afride  it's  no  good,"  answered  the  clerk  with  undis- 
guised boredom.  "And  Mr.  Waring  won't  be  best  pleased, 
if  I  go  in  agine." 

While  Jack  should  pay  for  his  pleasure  to  the  uttermost 
farthing,  it  was  undignified  to  prolong  an  altercation  with  a 
Cockney  voice,  especially  as  she  was  gaining  nothing. 

"Mr.  Waring  asked  me  to  go  to  the  theatre  with  him. 
Will  he  kindly  let  me  know  when  and  where  I'm  to  meet 
him?" 

The  words  were  repeated  slowly,  as  the  message  was 
written  down. 

"When-and-where-you're  to  meet  him.  Very  good.  If 
you'll  give  me  your  number,  I'll  find  out  and  'phone  you  as 
soon  as  the  consultation's  over." 

"But  I  want  to  know  now !  I've  got  arrangements  of  my 
own  to  make !" 


no  LADY  LILITH 

It  was  no  longer  the  deliberate  high  voice  of  authority. 
Grievance  was  merging  in  anger. 

"I  don't  like  to  go  in  agine  .  .  .  But  he  can't  be  long 
now.  If  you'll  give  me  your  number  .  .  ." 

The  Cockney  voice  suggested  a  mean,  back-bent  creature 
with  bitten  nails  and  cunning  eyes,  a  Uriah  Heep,  cringing 
but  sinister.  She  did  not  care  for  him  to  know  that  she 
had  lost  her  temper ;  only  this  and  the  need  to  punish  Jack 
for  his  latest  indignity  kept  her  from  refusing  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  theatre. 

"Oh,  ask  him  to  write,"  she  answered  with  attempted 
carelessness. 

As  she  ceased  speaking,  her  maid  came  in  to  say  that  Mr. 
Webster  had  called.  They  had  not  met  since  their  quarrel 
on  the  afternoon  of  Lady  Knightrider's  dance ;  and  she  was 
secretly  relieved  at  the  hardiness  of  his  ill-humour,  for  of 
all  men  he  least  repaid  the  discredit  which  she  earned  by 
being  seen  in  his  company.  At  best  he  was  a  good-natured, 
plastic  slave  with  a  ubiquitous  car  and  a  knack  of  securing 
seats  in  theatres  and  tables  in  restaurants  when  others 
failed;  at  worst  he  was  an  enigmatic  sensualist,  who. at- 
tracted her  because  he  privately  frightened  her.  They  met 
first  on  the  common  ground  of  an  interest  in  spiritualism, 
later  as  companions  in  misfortune;  Sonia  Dainton  alleged 
that  he  was  always  inviting  chorus-girls  to  his  rooms  and 
giving  them  too  much  to  drink  for  the  amusement  of  hear- 
ing what  they  would  say;  some  one  else  added  that  he 
smoked  opium,  and  an  agreeable  air  of  mystery  surrounded 
an  otherwise  disagreeable  young  man.  After  their  last 
quarrel  Lady  Barbara  had  decided  to  give  him  up ;  and  she 
only  wavered  now  because  she  wanted  a  whipping-boy  and 
felt  that  she  was  in  some  way  scoring  a  point  against  Jack 
by  receiving  him. 

"I'll  see  him — up  here,"  she  told  her  maid. 

Pier  face  was  still  flushed  from  the  telephone  altercation, 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  in 

and  she  posed  herself  carefully,  backing  the  window,  but 
with  the  curtains  thrown  to  their  widest  extent,  so  that 
Webster's  cedematous  eyelids  blinked  as  he  crossed  the  room 
and  held  out  a  plump  white  hand. 

"New  car  d'livered  t'day,"  he  wheezed.  The  habit,  in- 
duced by  intemperance,  of  slurring  the  major  parts  of 
speech  and  omitting  the  minor  survived  even  in  his  sober 
diction.  "  'Wondered  if  you'd  care  come  spin." 

"Oh  ?    7  was  wondering  whether  you'd  been  ill." 

"Ill  ?"  He  shook  his  head  and  coughed.  "No.  Only  too 
many  cigarettes.  Care  come?" 

"Not  till  you've  apologized  for  your  behaviour  to  me,  Mr. 
Webster." 

"Haven't  least  idea  what  mean,  but  I'll  apologize.  Al- 
ways ready  apologize." 

As  a  whipping-boy  he  was  too  spiritless  to  be  satisfying, 
and  Lady  Barbara  addressed  herself  to  the  invitation. 
Since  the  accident  and  the  inquest  she  had  not  embarked  on 
any  expeditions  with  him.  Indeed,  on  the  evening  before 
she  went  into  court,  she  had  deliberately  broken  a  prized 
Venetian  vase  and  whispered  to  herself — or  any  one  who 
was  listening — that,  if  she  emerged  without  discredit,  she 
would  never  go  with  him  again.  Nemesis  had  accepted  the 
vase  and  played  false  on  the  bargain.  But,  while  she  might 
fairly  feel  herself  released  from  her  promise,  she  was  op- 
pressed by  premonition  that  disaster  would  overtake  her  if 
she  risked  her  luck  again  with  Webster. 

"Where  are  you  going  to?  I'm  waiting  for  a  telephone 
message,"  she  answered. 

At  that  moment  the  bell  rang;  and,  as  she  picked  up  the 
receiver,  she  felt  guilty  towards  Jack  Waring;  in  part  she 
had  undertaken  to  drop  her  "objectionable  friends,"  in  part 
she  felt  that,  if  he  were  with  her,  he  would  stop  her 
going.  .  .  .  But  his  clerk  had  been  unpardonable.  .  .  . 

Gaymer's  voice  invited  her  to  dine  and  go  to  a  theatre 


H2  LADY  LILITH 

with  him.  She  accepted  and  impatiently  replaced  the  re- 
ceiver. 

"I'll  come  for  a  short  time,"  she  answered  and  felt  that 
she  was  defying  Jack.  "I  must  be  back  for  tea,  though." 

"Have  tea  my  place.  Madame  Hilary  coming.  Know 
who  mean?  Perfect  wonder  that  woman.  Doesn't  use 
medium;  makes  you,  me,  any  one  medium;  throws  you  in 
trance,  and  you  do  talking." 

The  seance  was  more  alluring  than  the  drive,  for 
Madame  Hilary  had  been  famous  in  necromantic  society 
for  more  than  a  month.  Lady  Barbara  had  been  generally 
forbidden  by  her  parents  to  dabble  in  black  magic,  and  a 
special  warning  had  been  issued  against  Madame  Hilary, 
whose  methods  had  made  her  notorious,  if  not  as  a  new 
witch  of  Endor,  at  least  as  an  accomplished  blackmailer. 

"Is  she  good  about  the  future  ?"  Lady  Barbara  asked.  "I 
don't  want  to  be  told  that  I've  lived  in  distant  lands,  some- 
times among  the  palms,  sometimes  in  sight  of  the  snows. 
I  know  that  better  than  she  does." 

"She  don't  tell  you  anything,"  Webster  explained.  "You 
do  all  the  talking,  and  we  listen.  Better  hear  some  one  else 
first;  people  sometimes  more  candid  than  they  like — after- 
wards." 

He  chuckled  maliciously  and  followed  her  downstairs. 
For  an  hour  they  drove  round  Richmond  Park,  and,  as  the 
light  began  to  fail,  he  turned  back  to  London  and  brought 
her  to  his  flat  by  the  Savoy  in  time  for  tea.  The  drowsy 
joy  of  rapid  movement  through  the  air  had  calmed  her 
nerves  and  blown  away  her  ill-humour;  she  was  too  tran- 
quil to  quarrel  even  with  Jack  Waring. 

As  she  entered  the  smoking-room  of  the  flat,  the  early 
premonition  of  disaster  returned.  It  was  an  unwhole- 
some place  after  Richmond  Park  on  a  December  day.  .  .  . 
Webster  himself,  white-faced  and  orientally  impassive,  in 
a  frame  of  yellow  down  cushions  and  a  heavy  atmosphere 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  113 

of  burning  cedar-wood,  was  a  sinister  mystery-monger  and 
purveyor  of  forbidden  fruit.  She  came  to  him  for  excite- 
ments and  experiences  which  the  world  conspired  to  keep 
her  from  obtaining  elsewhere.  An  unwholesome  man.  .  .  . 
If  anything  happened,  she  had  only  herself  to  blame.  .  .  . 
Yet  nothing  could  happen,  unless  the  new  clairvoyant  told 
her  something  horrid  about  the  future.  .  .  .  She  was  not 
going  to  run  away  from  a  clairvoyant.  .  .  . 

The  warm  rooms,  thickly  curtained  and  heavy  with 
scented  smoke,  were  already  half-full.  Sonia  Dainton  and 
Jack  Summertown  were  on  either  side  of  the  club  fender 
with  cigarettes  in  their  mouths;  the  Baroness  Kohnstadt, 
with  something  of  her  brother  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann's 
build  and  colouring  and  with  all  of  his  guttural  intonation, 
was  impressively  describing  Madame  Hilary's  powers ;  Lord 
Pennington,  with  a  tumbler  of  brown  brandy  and  soda  in 
one  hand,  swayed  insecurely  on  one  arm  of  a  chair  and  dis- 
charged amorous  darts  at  a  weak-mouthed  girl  with  big 
eyes  and  a  high  colour,  who  giggled  in  apprehensive  appre- 
ciation; on  the  other  sat  Sir  Adolf,  bald,  bearded  and 
fleshly,  competing  with  Pennington  for  her  attention.  In- 
voluntarily Lady  Barbara  paused  in  the  door-way.  If  Jack 
Waring  heard  that  she  had  been  to  Webster's  rooms  on 
such  an  errand  in  such  company  .  .  .  They  were  not  worth 
it.  ... 

"Hullo,  Babs!"  "Babs  darling!"  "Liddle  Barbara!" 
"How  ripping!" 

The  usual  chorus  of  welcome  greeted  her  and  mounted 
to  her  head.  Sonia  Dainton  was  kissing  her  extravagantly. 
Sir  Adolf  lurched  forward  to  praise  her  looks  and  dress, 
Lord  Pennington  to  repeat  and  laugh  at  any  phrase  that 
she  let  fall.  Doing  nothing,  saying  little,  simply  by  being 
herself,  she  dominated  them  until  the  door  opened  a  second 
time  and  a  gaunt  woman  in  a  clinging  black  dress  and  hat 
like  an  embossed  shield  rustled  into  the  room.  Her  great 


ii4  LADY  LILITH 

height  and  noiseless  movements  diverted  attention  from 
Lady  Barbara ;  she  threw  up  her  veil  with  a  clockwork  ges- 
ture as  though  she  were  ripping  it  from  her  face.  Webster 
advanced  with  a  bow  and  was  preparing  to  introduce  her, 
when  she  stopped  him  with  a  second  mechanical  fling  of  the 
hand. 

"Ah,  no!  You  tell  me  who  they  are  and  then  you  say, 
'Madame  Hilary  is  an  impostor ;  she  knew  a  little  before — 
and  she  make  up  the  rest.'  Is  it  not  so?  For  an  exhibi- 
tion I  like  better  to  know  nothing."  Her  eyes  flashed,  as 
she  looked  round  on  one  face  after  another.  "You, 
Mr.  Webster,  I  know — your  name,  at  least — but  these 
others  I  know  not  at  all.  It  is  well.  And  I  like  better  for 
you  not  to  tell  me.  But  you  are  all  waiting !  While  I  drink 
this  tea,  you  shall  decide  who  first  is  to  make  trial." 

She  sat  down,  unembarrassed  by  the  stealthy  examination 
to  which  she  was  being  subjected  on  all  sides,  and,  unpin- 
ning her  veil,  shewed  a  narrow,  lined  face  with  sunken 
cheeks,  an  aquiline  nose  and  eyes  that  were  lack-lustre 
after  their  initial  flash.  Two  well-bred  to  seem  bored,  she 
displayed  at  least  a  want  of  interest  which  chilled  the  spirits 
of  the  party  and  left  her  ascendant.  Webster  was  flustered 
at  having  to  stage-manage  the  seance;  for  Sir  Adolf  was 
so  diffident  and  Sonia  so  unsympathetic  that  he  had  diffi- 
culty in  finding  volunteers.  Lady  Barbara  at  once  offered 
herself,  but  seemed  impressed  by  his  whispered  warning 
that  she  had  better  first  see  what  surprising  exhibitions  peo- 
ple sometimes  made  of  themselves. 

"Here,  I'll  start  the  bidding,"  cried  Jack  Summertown, 
jumping  up  from  the  fender.  "Don't  pinch  my  simula- 
tion-gold watch,  any  one.  Only  fair  to  warn  you,  ma'am," 
he  went  on  to  Madame  Hilary,  "that  I  think  all  this  jolly 
old  spiritualism  is  a  fake.  What  do  I  have  to  do?  And 
may  I  finish  my  goodish  cork-tipped  Turkish  Regie?" 

Madame   Hilary,    suddenly   appreciating    that    she   was 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  115 

being  addressed,  seemed  to  awake  and  assume  new  vitality. 
Shewing  neither  offence  nor  amusement  at  his  scepticism, 
she  motioned  Summertown  to  a  chair  and  drew  her  own 
opposite  to  it. 

"Yes,  go  on  smoking.  It  does  not  matter."  She  looked 
round  the  room  with  another  clockwork  movement,  switched 
on  a  reading-lamp,  so  that  the  light  shone  straight  into  her 
own  face,  and  then  plunged  the  rest  of  the  room  in  dark- 
ness. "All  that  is  needed  is  for  you  to  look  at  me,  into  my 
eyes.  Never  take  your  eyes  off  mine.  I  like  better  for 
you  not  to  try,  not  to  will  yourself.  I  shall  ask  you  ques- 
tions, and  you  will  answer  them.  Questions  about  the  past. 
I  like  better  for  you  not  to  be  sympathetic.  Try  not  to  an- 
swer my  questions.  And,  when  I  have  persuaded  you  to 
answer  them,  I  shall  ask  you  more  questions — about  the 
future.  And  you  will  answer  them,  too.  And  afterwards 
I  will  tell  you  what  you  have  said.  So  you  will  come  to 
know  the  future." 

She  paused  to  draw  breath,  and  Summertown,  obediently 
looking  into  her  eyes,  finished  his  cigarette  and  tossed  the 
end  into  the  fire-place.  He  was  still  smiling  a  little ;  but  the 
room  was  grown  silent,  and  every  one  was  looking  at  him ; 
the  gaunt,  narrow  face  before  him,  grimly  serious,  discour- 
aged levity,  though  it  sharpened  his  desire  to  expose  her  as 
soon  as  she  began  her  tricks.  And  for  that  the  easiest  thing 
was  obstinately  to  answer  none  of  her  questions. 

"You  would  that  I  explain?"  The  deliberate  affectation 
of  broken  English  was  the  accepted  convention  of  an  Eng- 
lish actress  playing  the  part  of  a  Frenchwoman ;  every  one 
in  the  room  was  conscious  of  the  artificiality.  The  voice 
was  unmodulated  and  monotonous.  "In  all  ages  men  have 
tried  to  read  the  future.  By  the  stars  and  by  crystal  balls 
and  cards  and  numbers  and  pools  of  ink.  .  .  .  What  can  a 
pool  of  ink  tell  you  ?  The  future  lies  in  yourselves.  Within 
your  bodies  are  seeds  of  new  life — innumerable;  and  each 


n6  LADY  LILITH 

seed  holds  innumerable  other  seeds  of  new  life — generation 
after  generation,  seed  within  seed.  He  who  put  them  there 
ordained  that  the  Future  should  lie  buried  in  the  Present, 
as  the  Present  lay  buried  in  the  Past — and  as  the  Past  lies 
buried  in  the  Present!  It  is  hard  for  Man  to  unbury  the 
Future.  Man  has  not  been  ready  to  face  the  light,  and  I — 
I  who  help  you  to  see  that  light  have  never  seen  it  myself. 
Even  I  do  not  know  how  glaring  is  that  light.  .  .  .  But,  as 
the  seeds  of  the  Future  lie  in  you,  so  the  knowledge  of  the 
Future  lies  there  also.  Man  knows  all  the  Future,  as  Man 
holds  all  the  Future  within  himself,  but  he  has  forgotten. 
It  is  within  his  unconscious.  /  do  not  know  it,  but  I  can 
help  you  to  remember.  I  can  tell  you  nothing,  not  even 
your  name,  but  you  can  tell  me  everything  about  yourself, 
Past,  Present  and  Future.  What  is  your  name?" 

Lady  Barbara  started  with  surprise  when  the  abrupt 
question  cut  through  the  sleepy  drone  of  mock-mystic  jar- 
gon. Summertown  was  trapped  into  seriousness,  for  he  an- 
swered promptly: 

"John  Antony  Merivale-Farwell.  I'm  usually  called  Jack 
Summertown." 

"Why  are  you  called  Jack  Summertown?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Summertown's  the  guv'nor's  second 
title.  Thirty  per  cent,  on  your  bills,  and  not  a  dam'  thing 
else." 

He  looked  obediently  into  the  unwavering  eyes,  but  Lady 
Barbara  felt  that  his  familiar  colloquialism  was  a  deliberate 
effort  to  break  up  the  atmosphere  of  pretentious  mystery. 

"And  your  father?" 

"Well,  he's  rather  at  a  loose  end  at  present.  He  was 
Councillor  of  Embassy  at  Paris,  and  they  offered  him 
Madrid,  I  believe ;  but  he'd  been  ill  for  some  time  and  so  he 
chucked  in  his  hand.  Oh,  who  is  he?  Marling.  Earl  of." 

"You  are  married?" 

"God,  no!" 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  117 

"You  have  been  in  love?" 

Summertown  hesitated  and  then  answered  quietly: 

"Oh,  well,  yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

Lady  Barbara,  watching  his  face  as  he  gazed  into 
Madame  Hilary's  eyes,  became  conscious  of  a  change  in 
expression ;  Summertown  might  have  been  drunk.  His 
eyes  were  glazed,  his  features  set  and  his  forehead  moist; 
he  spoke  cautiously,  too,  as  though  fearful  of  a  trip  in  artic- 
ulation. 

"It  sounds  rather  sordid,"  he  began  diffidently.  "She 
was  an  awful  pretty  girl — in  a  shop.  Flower-shop.  I 
palled  up  with  her.  ...  I  expect  you'll  think  me  an  awful 
cad;  I  never  meant  to  marry  her.  It  would  have  meant 
such  a  hell  of  a  row  at  home.  .  .  .  To  do  myself  justice, 
I  told  her  that.  She  knew  who  I  was ;  she  said  that  didn't 
matter.  .  .  .  The  thing  lasted  for  a  year — nearly.  And 
most  of  the  time  I  went  through  the  agony  of  the  damned. 
Ask  any  one  who  thinks  he  knows  me;  you'll  be  told  I 
haven't  a  soul  to  save  and  I'm  the  village  idiot  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  All  I  know  is — I  wouldn't  go  through  it 
again.  I  loved  the  girl ;  and  I  always  felt  that  she  was  all 
right  till  I  came  along — and  then  I  corrupted  her;  and 
though  I  sweated  to  get  her  to  marry  me,  we  both  knew  it 
would  be  God's  own  failure.  .  .  .  And  the  end  was  the 
most  sordid  part  of  the  whole  business.  When  I  lay  awake 
at  night — I  did,  honest — thinking  I'd  dragged  her  half-way 
to  Hell,  another  feller  turned  up.  Number  One.  I  was 
Number  Two — or  Ten — or  Twenty.  .  .  .  That  was  nine- 
teen-eleven,  but,  if  you  sat  up  till  midnight  telling  me  how 
rotten  she  was,  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  make  me  forget  her. 
Wish  to  God  you  could !  .  .  .  But  we  were  dam'  well  man 
and  wife  for  a  twelvemonth." 

He  laughed  jerkily  and  grew  restless,  as  though  he  were 
looking  for  the  usual  cigarette.  Lady  Barbara  felt  an  over- 


n8  LADY  LILITH 

balancing  pull  and  discovered  that  she  had  been  making  her 
fingers  meet  in  the  soft  flesh  of  Sonia  Dainton's  arm. 
Madame  Hilary  was  triumphing.  None  of  them  could  say 
when  Jack  Summertown  had  passed  under  her  influence; 
apart  from  his  pallor  and  glazed  eyes,  he  had  not  changed; 
but  there  was  a  collective,  sympathetic  shudder  through  the 
room,  as  he  told  his  stunted  romance  in  characteristic  col- 
loquialisms. "Hell  of  a  row  at  home.  ...  A  year — 
nearly.  .  .  .  All  I  know  is — I  wouldn't  go  through  it 
again.  .  .  .  And  then  I  corrupted  her.  .  .  .  Dam'  well  man 
and  wife  for  a  twelvemonth.  .  .  ."  And  then  the  jerky, 
cynical  laugh.  It  was  Jack  Summertown's  manner  of  de- 
scribing an  unsuccessful  meeting  at  Hawthorn  Hill. 

"You  cannot  forget  her — but  you  will  find  some  one 
else?"  The  unmodulated  voice  was  pitiless. 

"Oh,  generally  speaking,  yes.  I  mean,  one  wants  to  keep 
the  jolly  old  family  going.  But  I've  not  got  much  time  with 
this  war." 

"This  war?" 

"Well,  the  general  bust-up.  I'm  in  the  army,  you  know, 
and  I  shall  get  finished  off  as  soon  as  it  starts.  Goodish 
early  door  for  me.  Hardly  seems  worth  it.  ...  At  least, 
I  mean,  if  the  girl  cares  for  you,  it's  a  bit  rough  to  leave 
her  a  widow  at  the  end  of  a  week." 

"Then  you  are  going  to  be  killed  quite  soon  ?" 

Lady  Barbara  held  her  breath  until  she  felt  that  her  heart 
must  stop.  The  others  were  doing  the  same.  Only  Madame 
Hilary  ladled  out  her  questions  with  a  voice  as  mechanical 
as  her  gestures. 

"Oh,  almost  at  once." 

"Stop!" 

Lady  Barbara  could  not  tell  whence  the  cry  had  come. 
Had  they  conjured  up  a  spirit?  Was  God  Himself  cutting 
short  their  quest?  But  she  did  not  believe  in  God.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  bustle  of  confused  movement,  followed  by 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  119 

stupefied  inertia.  Lord  Pennington,  after  flooding  the  room 
with  light,  was  seen  to  be  propping  himself  against  the  door; 
Madame  Hilary  sat  blinking  rapidly,  so  like  a  lone  cat  sur- 
rounded by  reluctant  terriers  that  little  imagination  was  re- 
quired to  see  the  arched  back  and  to  hear  the  spitting 
tongue.  Lady  Barbara  gripped  her  chair  with  both  hands, 
overcoming  fear.  Only  Webster,  who  had  seen  the  experi- 
ment before  and  exulted  in  the  sense  of  shocked  terror 
around  him,  contrived  to  purge  his  face  of  expression. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"Well,  that's  that,"  gulped  Pennington,  with  an  uncon- 
vincing laugh. 

Lady  Barbara's  brain  was  working  so  quickly  that  she 
had  time  to  see  and  reflect  on  everything  around  her.  These 
men  who  were  always  drinking  made  a  sorry  mess  of  their 
nerves ;  Pennington  was  hardly  less  incapacitated  than  Web- 
ster had  been  when  they  dashed  into  the  jutting  grey  angle 
of  wall.  And  Sonia,  who  did  not  drink  but  lived  on  excite- 
ment, was  almost  hysterical.  .  .  . 

"Reached  end  of  chapter,"  murmured  Webster,  glancing 
covertly  at  the  late  medium.  "What  deuce  want  spoil 
everything?"  he  demanded,  in  a  hectoring  aside,  of  Pen- 
nington's  late  giggling  companion.  .  .  .  "Who'd  like  go 
next?" 

Summertown  had  been  peering  lazily  in  search  of  cigar- 
ettes, but  his  host's  question  roused  him  to  activity. 

"Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  old  son,"  he  called  out.  And, 
turning  to  the  hypnotist,  "You  were  talking  about  the  jolly 
old  seeds.  Big  fleas  and  little  fleas.  .  .  ." 

Madame  Hilary  glanced  at  him  and  then,  carelessly,  at 
the  group  between  the  fire-place  and  the  door.  She  was  too 
well-bred  to  shew  triumph. 

"You  tell  me  you  doubt.  Good !"  she  answered  Summer- 
town,  "I  try  to  explain  just  my  theory.  Now,  in  every 


120  LADY  LILITH 

man  there  are  seeds  of  new  life,  and  each  seed  contains 
seeds  of  other  new  life,  of  the  Future.  .  .  ." 

Webster  waited  until  he  saw  Summertown  nodding  intel- 
ligently; then  he  joined  the  group  by  the  door. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked,  like  a  conjuror. 

The  Baroness  Kohnstadt  shuddered. 

"Ach,  derrible!" 

"It's  the  same  old  game,"  said  Pennington,  with  newly 
recovered  valour.  "She  pinned  herself  down  to  something 
fairly  definite,  but,  before  anything  comes  along  to  kill 
Summertown,  she'll  have  vamoosed  and  set  up  in  Harrogate 
as  a  beauty  specialist  Agree  with  me,  Lady  Barbara?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think — yet,"  she  answered.  "We 
mustn't  let  her  tell  him,  of  course.  .  .  ." 

As  she  stood  up,  her  knees  were  trembling. 

"But  nobody  believes  in  it  seriously,"  protested  Sonia 
Dainton  with  a  white  face. 

"7  do." 

They  had  been  joined  by  Lord  Pennington's  giggling 
companion  of  the  armchair.  Her  eyes  were  bigger,  and  fear 
had  washed  away  the  colour  from  her  cheeks. 

"Let  me  try  next,  Fatty,"  she  implored  Webster. 

"Why?" 

"I  want  to." 

"But  why?" 

She  moved  out  of  earshot  and  waited  for  him  to  join  her. 

"I  want  to,"  she  repeated.  "I  won't  say  anything  that  I 
oughtn't  to." 

Webster  laughed  harshly.  He  did  not  want  to  hear  the 
girl  unfolding  her  history  before  an  audience. 

"Keep  out  of  it,  Dolly;  only  make  fool  yourself,"  he  ad- 
vised. "You're  such  little  coward " 

"I  know!"  She  seemed  to  take  the  sneer  as  a  compli- 
ment. "But  I'm  gingered  up  now.  I  want  to  know!  I 
want  to  know  if  I'm  going  to  die.  They  said  I  was,  but 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  121 

they  only  did  it  to  frighten  me  and  get  me  away  to  a  sana- 
torium. I'm  going  to  find  out !" 

While  Webster  was  still  sluggishly  trying  to  make  up  his 
mind,  she  darted  past  him  and  presented  herself  to  Madame 
Hilary.  Summertown  yielded  place  reluctantly  and  joined 
the  group  at  the  door.  Before  the  lights  were  lowered,  the 
Master  of  the  Ceremonies  found  time  to  whisper,  "Cut  it 
short.  Others  want  turn,  too.  Leave  out  Past  and  Pres- 
ent; it's  Future  she's  interested  in." 

There  was  a  rustle  of  dresses  and  a  squeak  of  castors,  as 
the  audience  settled  into  chairs  and  the  lights  were  low- 
ered. After  the  same  initial  silence  the  same  droning  voice 
pronounced  the  elementals  of  the  creed.  "Though  men 
have  tried  by  the  stars  and  by  crystal  balls,  by  cards  and 
numbers  and  pools  of  ink,  they  have  not  hitherto  looked 
for  the  Future  within  themselves.  .  .  ." 

"How  long  does  this  tripe  go  on?"  Summertown  en- 
quired so  audibly  that  the  girl  started  and  turned  towards 
the  shadowy  group  by  the  fire. 

Madame  Hilary  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rose  to  her 
feet  with  dignity. 

"Please !  I  cannot  continue — like  this."  At  a  murmured 
apology  she  consented  to  sit  down  again,  and  the  momen- 
tarily human  voice  became  lost  in  the  professional  drone  of 
the  mystic.  "Keep  your  eyes  on  mine — so !  It  is  all  I  ask. 
I  like  better  that  you  resist,  that  you  determine  not  to  an- 
swer my  questions.  But,  if  you  look  into  my  eyes,  you  will 
tell  me  all  that  I  ask  you.  You  must.  You  are  telling  me 
now!  You  are  telling  me  now  your  name!  It  is — that 
name?" 

"Dorothea  Prilton.    I'm  called  Dolly  May  on  the  stage." 

"And  you  have  been  on  the  stage  since  long?" 

"Three  years." 

"And  how  old  are  you?" 

"Nineteen." 


122  LADY  LILITH 

"And  why  did  you  go  on  to  the  stage?" 

"Oh,  I  always  loved  it!  It's  everything  in  the  world  to 
me !  And  a  gentleman  friend  said  he'd  introduce  me  to  the 
manager  of  the  Pall  Mall." 

There  was  a  tinkle  of  broken  glass,  as  Webster's  elbow 
swept  an  ash  tray  to  the  floor. 

"And  you  expect  to  play  great  parts  ?  What  are  you  act- 
ing in  now?" 

"Well,  I'm  out  of  a  shop  at  present.  It's  such  killing 
work,  you  know.  I  had  to  break  one  contract  and  go  into 
a  nursing-home ;  and  I've  never  really  pulled  up  since.  One 
doctor  says  it's  lungs,  and  another  says  it's  heart.  I  was 
never  very  strong,  and  my  friend  had  an  awful  time  with 
me.  Sometimes  at  the  end  of  the  show,  he  had  to  give  me 
an  injection  in  my  arm  to  pull  me  round.  Of  course,  it 
saved  my  life,  but  I  think  it  affected  the  heart,  you  know. 
The  doctor  was  very  angry,  but  I  said  to  him,  'It's  all  very 
well  for  you  to  talk,  but  you  weren't  there  at  the  time;  I 
was  just  dying.'  I  shall  be  all  right  when  I've  had  a  bit  of 
a  rest." 

"And  you  expect  to  play  great  parts?"  Madame  Hilary 
repeated. 

There  was  no  answer.  As  the  silence  lengthened,  the 
audience  looked  critically  at  her;  she  had  spoken  hitherto 
with  the  prattling  candour  of  her  class,  and  the  question 
was  hardly  an  assault  on  her  professional  diffidence. 

"And  are  you  in  love?"  pursued  Madame  Hilary  without 
pity. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  in  silence  but  still  without  any 
expression  of  resentment  or  confusion. 

"Are  you  never  afraid  of  meeting  some  man  and  having 
to  retire  from  the  stage?" 

At  the  third  silence  Summertown  observed  loudly : 

"This  is  a  blinking  frost,  you  know.  I  said  it  was,  from 


NOBODY'S  FAULT  123 

the  beginning.  She  can't  make  you  answer,  if  you  don't 
want  to." 

The  penetrating  voice  brought  Madame  Hilary  to  her 
feet  a  second  time. 

"Mr.  Webster!  Where  is  Mr.  Webster?"  she  demanded. 
"Please!  I  cannot  go  on — like  this.  You  ask  this  gentle- 
man to  go  away,  and  I  continue.  Otherwise,  no !  I  cannot." 

"Oh,  I  say,  no  offence  meant,  you  know,"  Summertown 
pleaded. 

"I  cannot,"  Madame  Hilary  repeated  firmly.  "Mr.  Web- 
ster  " 

The  sense  of  the  meeting,  expressed  in  murmured  pro- 
tests, was  against  Summertown. 

"Oh,  all  right !  I'll  go,"  he  sighed.  "You  goin'  to  break 
away,  Babs  ?  It's  an  absolute  frost,"  he  whispered.  "Any- 
one seen  a  goodish  billycock  or  bowler,  not  to  mention  a 
cane,  a  rich  fur  coat — Oh,  my  God !" 

He  had  turned  on  the  light  to  look  for  his  belongings  and, 
while  the  others  ringed  themselves  about  Madame  Hilary 
with  speeches  of  condolence  and  apology,  he  alone  had 
leisure  to  see  that  Miss  Dorothea  Prilton,  known  on  Pall 
Mall  programmes  as  "Dolly  May,"  sat  dead  in  the  chair 
which  he  had  occupied  ten  minutes  before. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

THE  SHADOW  LINE 

"A  drunkard  is  one  that  will  be  a  man  to-morrow  morning,  but 
is  now  what  you  will  make  him,  for  he  is  in  the  power  of  the  next 
man,  and  if  a  friend  the  better." 

JOHN  EARLE:     "MICROCOSMOGRAPHIE." 

"I  KNEW  it.  o  .  .  Yes.  ...  Of  course.  .  .  ." 

Lady  Barbara  found  herself  repeating  the  words  aloud, 
though  no  one  listened  to  her.  Now  that  disaster  had  come, 
she  remembered  her  premonition;  and  it  gave  her  a  start 
over  the  others  in  recovering  self-possession,  so -that  she 
remained  motionless  instead  of  pathetically  trying  to  charm 
the  dead  girl  back  to  life.  Only  Webster  and  Summertown 
were  making  any  show  of  keeping  their  heads.  Madame 
Hilary  had  become  hysterical;  Lord  Pennington,  mottled 
and  tremulous,  was  charging  distractedly  to  and  fro  with  a 
decanter  of  brandy;  and  Sonia  Dainton,  shrinking  from  the 
body,  sobbed  quietly  to  herself  by  the  fire,  while  Sir  Adolf 
towered  over  her,  gesticulating  with  plump,  white  hands. 

"Lock  door,"  whispered  Webster.  "Tell  'em  not  s'much 
dam'  row." 

He  felt  the  girl's  pulse,  hurried  lumberingly  into  his  bed- 
room and  returned  with  a  shaving-mirrow,  which  he  held 
before  her  lips.  Then  he  closed  the  staring  eyes  and  cov- 
ered the  face  with  a  handkerchief. 

"Heart  failure,"  he  pronounced.  "Always  had  weak 
heart.  Excitement.  I  tried  stop  her,  you  heard  me  try 
stop  her !" 

At  the  note  of  pleading  in  his  voice,  Madame  Hilary's 

124 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  125 

lamentations  redoubled  in  vigour,  this  time  in  the  unmis- 
takable accent  of  Essex. 

"Before  get  doctor,  better  decide  story  put  up,"  Webster 
went  on  more  collectedly.  "Short  and  simple,  /  suggest. 

All  having  tea  here Said  she  was  feeling  tired 

Went  pale Suddenly  stopped  middle  sentence.  .  .  . 

Less  said  about  Madame  Hilary,  better.  Best  of  all,  send 
her  away  now.  Know  what  coroners  are." 

At  sound  of  the  formidable  word  Lady  Barbara  clutched 
frantically  at  Summertown's  elbow. 

"Will  there  be  an  inquest  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  'Can't  help  it.  That's  bad  enough,  but,  if  there's  any- 
thing of  a  post  mortem,  we  may  find  ourselves  in  the  soup. 
'Deceased  died  as  result  of  sudden  shock.'  What  shock? 
Why  shock?  I  don't  at  all  know  that  we  can  afford  to  let 
this  woman  go."  He  wrinkled  his  snubtnose;  and  his  cheer- 
ful, rather  dissipated  young  face  was  grave.  "Don't  at  all 
know,"  he  repeated. 

The  ink-and-whitewash  smell  of  the  court  came  to  life 
again  in  Lady  Barbara's  nostrils ;  and  she  heard  the  coroner 
once  more  urging  the  reporters  like  hounds  on  to  their 
quarry.  She  would  again  appear  side  by  side  with  Webster 
to  explain  away  another  gratuitous  death.  Twice  in  one 
year.  .  .  .  And  it  was  not  her  fault. 

"I  can't  stand  it,  Jack,"  she  whispered.    "I  can't !    I  can't !" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  for  it  was  generally  accepted 
that  she  could  never  lose  her*nerve. 

"Jove !  yes.  I'd  forgotten,"  he  answered.  "Here,  Fatty !" 
Webster  hurried  to  them  anxiously,  and  Summertown  be- 
came elaborately  calm  and  practical.  "Look  here,  old  son, 
you've  got  to  go  through  with  this;  the  body's  on  your 
premises.  And  Madame  must  go  through  with  it,  because 
they  may  find  all  sorts  of  funny  things  at  the  post  mortem. 
When  all's  said  and  done,  you  and  I  didn't  kill  her,  and 
there's  no  reason  why  we  should  get  the  credit  of  it.  I'm 


126  LADY  LILITH 

in  with  you  to  the  end.  I  think  Pennington  and  Sir  Adolf 
and  the  Baroness  ought  to  stay  to  make  a  quorum,  but  we'll 
talk  about  that  later.  Point  is — Babs  must  clear  out  before 
the  vet.  comes;  she's  never  been  here,  we  know  nothing 
about  her;  we  must  stick  to  that  and,  if  need  be,  swear  to 
it.  And  there's  no  need  to  drag  Sonia  into  the  business." 

Webster  reflected  with  slow  mind,  rubbing  his  fingers 
against  the  pad  of  his  thumb,  as  though  they  still  felt  the 
dead  eye-lids  of  the  girl  who  had  at  last  escaped  him. 

"Woman's  tough  customer,"  he  warned  them.  "Black- 
mail you  quick  as  thought.  And  looks  bad — much  worse — , 
if  any  one  stays  away  inquest." 

"We'll  trust  that  she's  too  much  rattled,"  Summertown 
answered.  "And  she  doesn't  even  know  who  Babs  is." 

"Bet  your  life  she  does,"  Webster  answered.  Seeing 
Lady  Barbara's  undisguised  fear,  he  deliberately  played  on 
it,  as  his  price  for  allowing  her  to  escape  the  inquest.  "If 
she  don't,  dam'  soon  find  out." 

Future  blackmail  seemed  a  less  evil  than  present  expo- 
sure; and  Lady  Barbara  only  wanted  to  break  away  from 
the  sweet-smelling,  hot  room  and  to  avoid  the  sour-smell- 
ing, hot  court.  Summertown  looked  to  her  for  an  answer; 
but  her  eyes  were  blinking  quickly,  and  two  tears  rolled 
unchecked  down  her  cheeks. 

"Here,  if  you  break  down,  you'll  do  us  all  in,"  he  said, 
glancing  furtively  round  the  room.  "Sonia's  no  more  use 
than  a  sick  headache;  you've  got  to  take  charge  of  her  and 
clear  out  before  any  one  lodges  an  objection.  Make  certain 
that  you've  got  everything  before  you  go — no  incriminating 
muff's  or  gloves.  Now  remember!  It  doesn't  matter  a 
damn  where  you've  been,  but  you've  not — been — here.  I'll 
explain  to  the  others.  Get  home  or  somewhere  and  estab- 
lish a  good  fat  alibi;  we'll  give  you  a  start  before  we  send 
for  the  vet." 

With  the  shrill  moans  of  Madame  Hilary  still  pulsating 
through  their  heads,  he  pushed  them  out  on  to  the  landing 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  127 

and  locked  the  door.  Sonia  ran  headlong  down  the  passage 
until  she  was  caught  and  schooled  to  a  careless  saunter 
down  the  stairs  and  through  the  hall. 

"Come  home  with  me,"  Barbara  ordered.  "Jack's  quite 
right  about  the  alibi." 

"But,  Babs " 

"If  you  start  talking,  I  shall  scream!" 

They  found  a  taxi  in  the  Strand  and  drove  to  Berkeley 
Square.  Barbara  ostentatiously  ordered  tea,  and  they  sub- 
sided into  chairs  without  speaking.  The  shock  of  death 
was  spent  and  could  not  be  repeated.  Dolly  May — if  that 
was  her  name — was  dead ;  surprisingly,  horribly  dead,  but 
there  was  no  more  to  be  said  about  it,  and  Barbara  could 
now  recall  without  a  shudder  the  still  face  and  staring 
eyes.  .  .  .  She  wondered  what  they  were  all  doing  now, 
whether  the  doctor  had  come.  .  .  .  And  what  had  really 
happened — not  only  to  the  girl,  but  to  Summertown  ?  Even 
death  was  not  so  terrific  as  the  power  which  Madame 
Hilary  seemed  to  exert. 

"Have  some  tea,  Sonia,  and  try  not  to  think  about  it," 
said  Lady  Barbara,  hoping  to  restore  her  own  tranquillity. 

There  would  be  days  of  agony,  while  she  waited  to  see 
whether  she  would  be  called  as  a  witness  and  required  to 
explain  her  flight.  Madame  Hilary  was  not  the  woman  to 
drown  alone ;  and,  though  the  men  had  shewn  magnanimity 
and  esprit  de  corps,  one  never  knew  what  would  come  out 
in  court,  one  never  knew  how  far  to  trust  people  whom  the 
tolerant  Summertown  himself  always  described  colloquially 
as  "a  bit  hairy  about  the  heel."  Lord  Pennington  .  .  .  the 
upward-striving  baroness  .  .  .  Sir  Adolf  .  .  .  Webster, 
who  was  an  unplumbed  pool  of  iniquity.  She  would  always 
be  a  little  at  their  mercy;  and,  without  trying  to  injure  her, 
people  always  gossiped. 

Sonia  Dainton  abruptly  set  down  her  cup  and  buried  her 
face  in  a  cushion. 

"It  was — Fatty  closing  her  eyes,"  she  explained  with  a 


128  LADY  LILITH 

gulp;  and  Lady  Barbara,  in  trying  to  comfort  her,  found 
herself  crying  in  sympathy. 

They  were  steadied  by  the  bell  of  the  telephone  and  a 
crisp  voice,  which  for  once  was  refreshing  in  its  self-assur- 
ance. 

"Mr.  Waring,"  it  announced.  "My  clerk  told  me  you 
were  expecting  me  to  ring  you  up.  Didn't  you  get  my  let- 
ter? I  said  I'd  meet  you  by  the  box-office  at  five  to  two." 

Lady  Barbara  looked  in  bewilderment  at  her  watch;  less 
than  three  hours  had  passed  since  her  altercation  with  the 
Cockney  clerk. 

"I'm  afraid  I  lost  your  letter,"  she  answered,  almost 
humbly.  "Five  to  two.  I'll  try  not  to  be  late." 

"I  warn  you  that  I  never  wait  for  any  one,"  Jack  laughed. 
"Was  that  all  you  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about?" 

In  the  first  reaction  from  severe  fright,  she  was  prepared 
for  an  outburst  of  anger  against  the  first  victim — Sonia,  for 
breaking  down  like  a  little  fool;  the  Cockney  clerk  for  his 
impertinence ;  and  Waring  himself  as  the  mainspring  of  all 
evil.  She  had  only  gone  to  the  flat  because  she  felt  that  she 
was  scoring  a  point  against  him.  No  one  had  ever  behaved 
with  his  indifference — which  was  more  galling  than  blunt 
rudeness;  no  one  had  ever  equalled  him  in  aloofness  and 
self-sufficiency.  His  stubborn  unquestioning  faith  in  him- 
self won  her  reluctant  admiration.  It  was  a  new  experience 
to  find  a  man  whom  she  could  not  twist  round  her  finger  at 
ithe  first  meeting;  if  he  had  attended  the  seance,  she  felt 
'that  Dolly  May  would  still  be  alive ;  he  would — somehow — 
iiave  intervened ;  perhaps  he  would  even  have  persuaded  her 
,to  stay  .at  home.  She  would  give  five  years  of  her  life  to 
have  met  any  one  with  authority  to  stop  her.  .  .  . 

Sonia  had  ceased  crying  and  was  sniffing  miserably  at  her 
handkerchief .  The  sound  irritated  Lady  Barbara  to  the 
verge  of  hysteria ;  if  the  little  fool  could  see  what  she  looked 
like  with  pink  eyes  and  a  red  nose.  .  .  . 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  129 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  asked  Jack. 

"To-night?  I'm  dining  at  the  club,"  he  answered  with 
the  same  crisp  assurance. 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  dine  here?"  It  was  an  impulse 
which  she  had  no  time  to  examine,  but  Jack's  voice,  which 
she  had  never  noticed  before,  destroyed  hysterical  images 
and  brought  her  in  contact  with  reality.  "I'd  promised  to 
go  to  a  play,  but  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  it,"  she  added. 

With  her  disengaged  hand  she  wrote  down  "Gaymer"  to 
remind  herself  that  she  must  be  excused  going  to  the  thea- 
tre with  him.  If  her  name  were  mentioned  at  the  inquest, 
she  did  not  want  to  hear  the  coroner  explaining  to  the 
reporters  that  she  was  in  her  stall  before  the  doctor  had  fin- 
ished his  examination  of  Dolly  May's  dead  body;  even  if 
her  name  went  unpublished,  she  did  not  want  Summertown 
to  feel  that  he  had  stayed  at  his  post  while  she  pusillani- 
mously  escaped  and  ran  off  to  amuse  herself. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  Jack  answered,  "but  I  don't  think 
I  will.  You  know,  I  hardly  ever  dine  out.  And  I  couldn't 
talk  up  to  your  level  for  three  minutes." 

"Well,  shall  I  do  the  talking?  I  want  somebody  to  talk 
to;  I  shall  be  all  alone." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause;  and  Sonia,  finding  the 
one-sided  dialogue  uninteresting,  looked  at  her  watch  and 
began  collecting  her  furs. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  I  very  well  can,  you  know,"  said 
Jack,  "if  you're  all  alone." 

"Not  in  my  own  house?  I  must  say,  you  are  the  most 
extraordinary  person!  There  are  men — strange  as  it  may 
seem — who  would  give  a  good  deal  for  the  chance  of  having 
me  to  themselves  at  dinner." 

"I'm  sure  of  it.    You're  wasted  on  me." 

Candour  and  conceit  were  so  nicely  matched  in  Jack  War- 
ing that  Lady  Barbara  could  not  tell  from  his  voice  whether 
he  was  laughing  at  her. 


130  LADY  LILITH 

"I've  asked  you  once  to  come,"  she  sighed.  "I'm  so  used 
to  getting  my  own  way  that  I  thought  that  would  be 
enough."  She  broke  off  into  a  cough  and  gave  Sonia  time 
to  get  out  of  the  room.  "If  you  want  to  see  whether  I've 
got  any  pride,  I  haven't — just  now.  I  ask  you  again.  I 
told  you  I  wasn't  in  the  mood  to  go  to  the  play ;  I'm  worried 
out  of  my  mind.  But  I  don't  fancy  being  alone  all  the 
evening.  If  it's  too  much  trouble  to — talk  up  to  my  level, 
don't  come.  But  I  should  like  you  to." 

There  was  a  moment's  laughter — deliberately  mocking  or 
ingenuously  unrestrained ;  she  could  never  make  out  whether 
Jack  was  naturally  or  intentionally  stupid. 

"I  can't  resist  the  pathetic,  Lady  Barbara.  What  time 
shall  I  come?" 

"We  might  dine  about  half -past  eight.  If  you  want  to 
meet  mother  and  make  certain  that  I'm  not  compromising 
you,  come  earlier." 

The  taunt  was  left  unanswered ;  but  it  was  noticeable  that 
Jack  arrived  in  Berkeley  Square  at  eight  o'clock,  when  the 
car  was  at  the  door  and  the  door  itself  open.  In  the  hall 
Lord  Crawleigh  was  being  helped  into  a  fur-coat,  and  a 
blushing  young  footman  was  paying  the  penalty  of  inex- 
perience, clumsiness  and  some  one  else's  hasty  dinner.  Lady 
Crawleigh  steered  a  course  round  the  storm-centre  and  ap- 
proached the  stranger  with  the  outstretched  hand  of  hurried 
welcome. 

"Mr.  Waring?  You  must  forgive  our  running  away  like 
this ;  the  wretched  play  starts  as  a  quarter  past  eight.  Babs 
will  be  down  in  a  moment.  You  won't  keep  her  up  late,  will 
you?  We've  got  to  go  on  to  a  party  at  the  Carnforths,  so 
I  must  leave  you  to  see  that  she  goes  to  bed  in  good  time. 
She's  rather  overdone." 

With  a  flying  introduction  to  Lord  Crawleigh,  she  rustled 
down  the  steps  and  into  the  car.  Jack  was  shewn  into  the 
morning-room,  where  he  smoothed  his  hair,  straightened 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  131 

his  tie  and  settled  down  to  the  evening  paper,  paying  as  lit- 
tle attention  to  the  Japanese  prints  on  the  walls  as  he  had 
done  in  the  hall  to  a  pair  of  historic  porcelain  vases  which 
appeared  from  time  to  time  at  loan  exhibitions  and  were 
beyond  price.  At  Oxford  and  in  the  Temple  his  attitude  to 
art  was  one  of  toleration,  ungrudging  and  unpatronizing. 
"I  suppose  it's  all  right,"  he  would  say,  when  Eric  Lane 
tried  to  interest  him  in  a  new  discovery.  "Not  my  line  of 
country,  though." 

Lady  Barbara  came  down,  as  he  was  finishing  the  report 
of  a  case  in  which  he  had  appeared  that  day  in  the  Court  of 
Appeal.  He  was  too  much  engrossed  to  notice  that  she  was 
ten  minutes  late. 

"  'Blame  me  not,  poor  sufferer;  that  I  tarried/  "  she  be- 
gan. "I  had  such  an  awful  headache  that  I  could  hardly 
get  up ;  and  I  thought  it  would  be  straining  our  friendship 
if  I  asked  you  to  dine  with  me  in  my  room.  There's  not  the 
least  need  for  you  to  ask  if  I'm  feeling  better,"  she  pouted. 

Jack  laughed  and  laid  his  paper  tidily  on  the  table. 

"Sorry!  I — I  warned  you  I  wasn't  a  social  animal.  I 
hope  you're  all  right  now." 

"Better.  I  feel  rather  as  if  some  one  had  been  putting  hot 
coals  at  the  back  of  my  eyes."  She  paused  and  looked  at 
him  invitingly. 

"'But  thy  dark  eyes  are  not  dimm-'d,  proud  Iseutt! 
And  thy  beauty  never  was  more  fair.' 

\ 
Some  people  never  take  their  cues." 

"I  havenl:  a  book  of  the  words,  I'm  afraid." 
"And  you've  probably  never  heard  of  Matthew  Arnold." 
"Oh,  yes,  I  have.     He  translated  Homer  or  something. 
My  tutor  was  always  quoting  him." 

"You're  wonderfully  banal  at  times;  Mr.  Waring." 
"Well,  I  warned  you  that  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  stay  the 
course,"  he  answered  unabashed. 


i32  LADY  LILITH 

They  dined  in  amicable  dulness.  Lady  Barbara,  who  gen- 
erally shewed  a  knack  of  knowing  what  she  wanted  and 
going  straight  for  it,  could  not  define  what  had  made  her 
invite  him.  His  conversation  was  a  minute-gun  fire  of 
laboured  conventional  questions  about  theatres,  the  House 
of  Commons  and  her  plans  for  Christmas.  She  lacked  the 
lightness  of  spirit  to  banter  him  about  his  Cockney  clerk, 
still  less  to  work  up  a  scene  out  of  her  conversation  on  the 
telephone.  The  humiliation  of  the  Croxton  Ball  seemed 
very  far  away ;  and,  now  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  him, 
she  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  she  had  sat  half  the  night 
staring  vengefully  into  the  fire  and  plotting  to  punish  her 
glib  critic.  He  was  tough  of  hide  as  Fatty  Webster.  .  .  . 

The  name,  flashing  through  her  mind,  conjured  up  a  pic- 
ture which  she  had  striven  to  forget — a  hot,  scented  room 
with  men  and  women  shrinking  against  the  walls,  a  dead 
girl  in  the  middle  and  a  convulsive,  hysterical  witch  oppo- 
site her.  She  wondered  whether  they  were  still  there,  what 
the  doctor  had  said.  .  .  . 

"I  hadn't  time  to  see  the  paper  to-night,"  she  said.  "Was 
there  anything  in  it?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  We  won  our  appeal — the  Great 
Southern  Railway  case;  I  don't  know  whether  you've  been 
following  it — but  they're  sure  to  take  it  to  the  House  of 
Lords.  Otherwise — oh,  your  friend  Webster  seems  to  be  in 
trouble  again." 

Lady  Barbara  felt  as  if  he  had  struck  her  over  the  heart. 

"What's  he  been  doing?"  she  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Well,  this  time  I  think  he  was  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning.  He  had  some  people  to  tea  in  his  flat,  and  one  of 
them  was  inconsiderate  enough  to  die  on  the  premises." 

"Oh,  how  dreadful!"  She  was  quite  satisfied  with  her 
inflection.  "Where's  the  paper?  Herbert,  will  you  get  me 
the  evening  paper  out  of  the  morning-room?" 

"It's  only  a  line  or  so  in  the  stop-press,"  Jack  warned 
her. 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  133 

"But  I  want  to  see  who  was  there !" 

He  looked  at  her  closely,  for  her  voice  had  risen  in  ex- 
citement. When  it  was  too  late,  she  realized  that  it  would 
have  been  more  natural  to  ask  who  had  died.  Before  Jack's 
eyes  her  own  fell,  but  she  had  time  to  wonder  again 
whether  he  was  stupidly  incurious  or  deliberately  secretive. 
There  were  moments  when  his  "superiority"  seemed  more 
than  a  manner,  when  she  felt  bare  and  trapped.  The  placid, 
round-cheeked  smile  might  have  belonged  to  a  cheerful 
ploughboy,  but  the  commonplace  grey  eyes  were  sometimes 
intelligent  and  always  watchful. 

When  the  paper  came,  she  felt  that  he  was  looking 
through  her,  and  her  hands  trembled. 

"Did  you  know  the  girl?"  he  asked. 

"I  met  her  once — for  a  moment.  What  a  horrible  thing 
to  happen!" 

"You  must  be  glad  you  weren't  there." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

As  the  indignant,  frightened  question  broke  from  her, 
she  felt  that  she  was  behaving  like  a  stage  criminal  and 
betraying  herself  because  the  audience  expected  it  of  her. 
It  was  a  barrister's  business  to  lure  you  on  with  innocent 
questions.  .  .  .  She  was  convinced  that  Jack  knew  every- 
thing and  was  playing  with  her. 

"You  always  used  to  go  about  with  him,"  he  pointed  out ; 
and  she  wondered  what  base  satisfaction  one  human  being 
could  derive  from  torturing  another. 

"It's  curious  the  way  you  dislike  people  without  knowing 
them,"  she  answered.  "Now,  shall  I  behave  like  a  perfect 
Victorian  and  leave  you  to  your  wine  while  I  do  a  little 
embroidery  in  the  drawing-room?  I  haven't  got  any  em- 
broidery and,  if  I  had,  I  couldn't  do  it.  Or  would  you  like 
me  to  sit  with  you?" 

When  it  was  too  late,  she  knew  that  she  wanted  to  escape 
and  collect  herself  before  he  went  on  with  his  inquisition. 

''You  won't  smoke  while  I'm  drinking  port-wine,  will 


i34  LADY  LILITH 

you?"  he  asked  without  answering  her  question;  and  his 
impudence  determined  her  to  throw  away  the  opportunity 
of  retreat. 

She  prepared  a  crushing  retort,  discarded  it  for  one  more 
crushing  and  suddenly  realized  that  in  her  present  state  he 
could  beat  her  and  very  easily  make  her  cry.  If  she  cried, 
too,  he  would  only  think  that  she  was  acting.  .  .  . 

"Please  let  me  have  one  cigarette,"  she  begged.  "I'll 
go  to  the  other  end  of  the  room." 

As  she  walked  away  to  the  fire-place  and  stood  with  her 
elbow  on  the  mantel-piece  and  her  head  half  in  shadow, 
Jack  thought  for  a  moment  of  asking  her  to  come  back; 
but  he  was  not  wholly  reconciled  to  the  practice  of  smoking 
among  women,  and  Colonel  Waring  had  taught  him  that 
to  drink  a  vintage  wine  with  a  tainted  palate  was  even  less 
excusable  than  to  enter  a  church  without  removing  one's  hat. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  chair?"  he  asked  by  way  of 
compromise. 

"I  prefer  standing,  thanks.  Mr.  Waring,  I  told  you  on 
the  telephone  that  I  was  worried  out  of  my  mind.  I  don't 
know  how  much  you've  heard,  but  I  was  with  Fatty  Web- 
ster when  that  girl  died.  Did  you  know  that?" 

The  placid,  plough-boy  smile  faded  slowly;  and,  as  he 
raised  his  eyebrows,  Lady  Barbara  appreciated  that  she  was 
betraying  herself  gratuitously. 

"I  only  know  what's  in  the  paper.     What  happened?" 

She  retained  enough  judgement  to  see  that  she  must  now 
tell  him  everything,  enough  prudence  to  exact  a  promise  of 
secrecy.  As  she  described  Madame  Hilary  and  the  seance, 
she  could  see  prim  disapproval  on  his  features,  deepening 
with  every  name  and  incident  in  the  story.  For  a  man 
with  no  great  range  of  facial  expression,  he  succeeded  in 
conveying  categorical  contempt  for  her  manner  of  life,  her 
friends  and  herself ;  and  she  forgot  her  troubles  in  a  warm 
rush  of  anger. 

"Just  let  me  understand,"  he  interrupted,  as  the  story 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  135 

•drew  to  an  end.  "Are  you  coming  to  me  for  advice,  do 
you  think  I  can  help  you?  Or  are  you  just  entertaining  me 
with  your  latest  escapade?" 

Lady  Barbara  gripped  the  edge  of  the  mantel-piece  to 
keep  control  of  herself. 

"Perhaps  I  thought  I  might  get  a  little  sympathy,"  she 
answered. 

Jack  lay  back  in  his  chair,  pushing  away  his  wine-glass 
and  reaching  for  his  coffee-cup.  He  chose  a  cigar  and 
pierced  it;  and  every  act  in  its  deliberation  and  absorbed 
care  for  his  own  comfort  set  her  on  fire  to  ruffle  his  ex- 
asperating composure. 

"I  should  have  thought  the  others  had  a  prior  claim  on 
any  sympathy  that's  going  about." 

"I'm  afraid  no  amount  of  sympathy  will  bring  the  dead 
back  to  life,"  she  answered  in  a  whisper. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  her.  But  the  others  did  at  least 
stand  their  ground." 

"You  mean  I  deserted  my  friends?"  she  demanded  furi- 
ously. 

"Well,  of  course  you  did, — if  they  are  your  friends.  It 
wasn't  your  fault,  but  it  wasn't  theirs,  either.  Because  your 
own  record  of  inquests  doesn't  court  enquiry,  you're  al- 
lowed to  cut  and  run." 

"I  couldn't  have  done  any  good  by  staying." 

He  made  no  answer  until  he  had  found  matches  and 
lighted  his  cigar.  It  was  evidently  important  that  the  coffee 
and  brandy  and  tobacco  should  march  abreast ;  evidently 
science  and  art  went  to  the  skilled  lighting  of  a  cigar;  a 
man — or  at  least  Jack  Waring — could  not  be  expected  to  at- 
tend to  other  people's  troubles  until  he  had  made  sure  of 
his  own  comfort. 

"Ah,  there  I  disagree,"  he  said  at  length.  "It  would  have 
made  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  First  of  all  you'd 
have  proved  that  you  were  the  sort  of  person  one  can  go 
tiger-shooting  with — it  wasn't  a  particularly  proud  thing 


136  LADY  LILITH 

to  do,  was  it? — and  then  you'd  have  proved  to  yourself 
that  you'd  got  the  moral  courage  to  refuse  a  cheap  sur- 
render; and  you'd  have  learned  that  eccentric  amusements 
have  to  be  paid  for  at  blackmailing  prices:  you  could 
go  into  court  with  an  easy  conscience,  if  you'd  been  having 
tea  at  Rumpelmayer's  and  the  girl  had  died  there.  In 
the  next  place " 

Lady  Barbara  turned  her  head  slowly  and  succeeded  in 
stopping  him  without  saying  a  word. 

"I  should  be  careful,  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Waring,"  she 
recommended,  as  he  paused. 

"My  dear  Lady  Barbara,  you  introduced  the  subject. 
You  can't  have  all  the  fun  of  posing  as  a  candidate  for 
sympathy.  ...  If  you'd  stayed,  it  would  have  changed 
your  whole  life.  There  would  have  been  such  an  outcry 
that  you'd  have  been  broken ;  people  simply  wouldn't  meet 
you.  Not  only  Loring  House  would  be  closed  to  you " 

A  coffee-spoon  rattled  onto  the  floor,  as  she  turned  on 
him  again. 

"I  won't  be  spoken  to  like  this !" 

"It  may  come  yet,  of  course,"  Jack  went  on  reflectively, 
hardly  noticing  her  furious  interruption.  "These  things  al- 
ways do  get  out " 

"Are  you  trying  to  frighten  me?"  she  asked.  But  she 
was  frightened  long  before  he  entered  the  house.  This 
was  the  kind  of  mishap  to  bring  her  months  of  ill  luck.  .  .  . 

Jack  was  angry  without  shewing  it  or  guessing  the  rea- 
son. The  young  actress's  death  shocked  him  less  than  Lady 
Barbara's  easy  acceptance  of  it.  To  her  and  to  Sonia 
Dainton,  to  Erckmann  and  the  baroness,  to  Webster  and 
Pennington,  the  dead  girl  was  a  nonentity  from  another 
world;  they  were  sorry  that  she  had  died  so  young,  they 
were  shocked  that  she  had  died  at  all;  but,  had  she  been 
a  Kanaka  or  Lascar  bunker-rat,  they  could  not  have 
troubled  less  to  wonder  whether  she  had  mother  or  sisters 
to  mourn  her;  she  was  a  super  from  the  theatrical  under- 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  137 

world,  and  her  ill-judged  time  and  place  of  dying  had  put 
them  into  a  very  embarrassing  position.  When  Jack 
hinted  at  a  social  boycott  of  Barbara,  he  was  threatening, 
what  he  only  lacked  power  to  enforce ;  she  deserved  punish- 
ment, and,  if  he  could  not  punish  her  as  she  deserved,  he 
could  at  least  get  far  away  from  her  to  a  society  which  took 
death  seriously. 

"I'm  not  sufficiently  interested,  I'm  afraid,"  he  answered 
with  languid  boredom  that  thinly  veiled  his  disgust. 

"But  you'd  like  to  see  me  'broken,'  you'd  feel  so  su- 
perior  ,"  she  taunted. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  slowly  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Why  you  invited  me  I  don't  quite  know,"  he  mused. 
"Surely  not  to  help  you  out  with  one  of  your  little  dramatic 
scenes?  .  .  .  Now,  about  to-morrow — will  you  be  up  to 
coming  to  this  show?" 

"No!  And  even  I  might  think  twice  before  going  to  a 
theatre  while  that  girl's  still  unburied.  That's  why  I'm 
here  now,  why  I  gave  myself  the  pleasure  of  asking  you 
to  dine  with  me.  .  .  .  And  you  may  be  quite  comfortable 
in  your  mind ;  you  won't  ever  need  to  risk  your  reputation 
by  being  seen  in  my  company  again." 

Jack  could  see  that  her  nerves  were  sadly  unstrung,  but 
he  could  not  understand  the  restless  vanity  which  always 
posed  her  in  the  limelight  ahead  of  the  world' in  novelty  and 
extravagance  and  yet  so  lacked  confidence  that  she  was 
wounded  if  any  dared  criticize. 

"I  accept  my  dismissal,"  he  said  good-humouredly. 
Nothing  would  induce  him  to  give  her  the  satisfaction  of  a 
parting  scene.  His  training  at  home,  at  Eton  and  at  New 
College  taught  him  that  an  Englishman  might  legitimately 
display  every  quality  but  emotion.  "I  warned  you  that  I 
was  not  a  social  success." 

"Have  you  tried  very  hard?  You  always  talk  to  me 
as  if  I'd  no  more  feeling  than  that  table." 

Lady  Barbara  needed  concentration  to  analyze  him.    She 


138  LADY  LILITH 

knew  that  a  man  is  usually  cruel  only  to  those  whom  he 
likes  or  loathes ;  and  it  dawned  upon  her  that,  when  an  un- 
social animal  consented  to  meet  her  at  all,  he  would  not  try 
to  hurt  her  unless  he  cared  for  her. 

"I'm  not  going  to  join  your  musical-comedy  chorus  of 
adulators,  when  I  think  you  ought  to  be  soundly  whipped; 
I'm  not  even  going  to  say,  'Oh,  that's  Barbara  Neave's 
way;  she's  always  a  law  unto  herself/  I  think  that's  the 
thinnest  excuse.  .  .  .  Why  did  you  insist  on  telling  me 
about  it  at  all?  It's  like  some  one  boasting  that  he  smokes 
a  hundred  cigarettes  a  day.  .  .  .  But  your  mother  said 
I  was  to  send  you  to  bed  early.  Good-bye,  Lady  Barbara." 

She  walked  with  him  into  the  hall  and  watched  his 
elaborate  and  characteristic  care  in  arranging  his  scarf. 

"I  seem  to  have  failed  again,"  she  sighed;  and  this  time 
there  was  an  unaffected  wistfulness  in  her  voice. 

"What  were  you  trying  to  bring  off?"  he  asked  harshly. 

"I  hardly  know.  .  .  .  I'm  not  trying  to  make  a  scene 
now,  but  don't  you  think  you've  been  a  bit  hard  on  me  ?  I 
was  a  fool  ever  to  have  anything  to  do  with  Fatty  Webster : 
good.  I  was  a  fool  to  go  to  that  seance:  good.  If  you 
like,  I  was  a  coward  to  come  away.  But  what  actually  hap- 
pened was  just  bad  luck,  and  you've  been  talking  as  if  it 
was  my  fault.  I  didn't  enjoy  it  very  much,  I  don't  like 
thinking  about  it;  it's  just  possible  that  it  was  a  very  hor- 
rible shock.  I  wasn't  asking  you  to  approve  of  it,  but 
you  might  have  been  a  little  bit  more  sympathetic." 

Her  lips  were  trembling,  and  Jack  remembered  with 
consternation  the  night  of  the  Croxton  ball  when  he  had 
made  her  cry.  Then  and  now  he  had  said  nothing  that 
he  wanted  to  retract,  but  all  reasonable  discussion  ended 
when  tears  were  brought  in  as  an  argument. 

"It  must  have  been  beastly  for  you,"  he  assented.  "I 
should  have  been  more  sympathetic,  perhaps,  if  I'd  thought 
that  it  would  have  any  permanent  effect  on  you." 


THE  SHADOW  LINE  139 

"Don't  you  think  it  will?" 

"I  shan't  be  there  to  see,"  he  laughed.  "I've  been  dis- 
missed." 

Barbara  sighed  and  reminded  him  of  her  headache  by 
drawing  her  hand  slowly  across  her  eyes.  Since  the  night 
of  the  ball,  when  he  sat  beside  her  at  the  piano,  he  had 
forgotten  how  beautiful  her  hands  were. 

"You  made  me  lose  my  temper.  I'm  sorry,  if  I  said 
anything  rude.  There !  Do  you  want  to  be  dismissed  ?" 

The  softening  in  her  tone  was  infectious,  and  Jack 
smiled. 

"I  like  you,  when  you're  like  this.  But  the  more  we 
meet,  the  more  I  shall  ruffle  your  plumage.  Why  on  earth 
did  you  ask  me  to  dine  with  you  to-night  ?" 

Lady  Barbara  looked  at  him  and  looked  away  before 
answering.  To  put  her  feeling  into  words  was  at  once  to 
overstate  it;  but  she  had  hovered  that  afternoon  on  a 
shadow-line  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  lost 
confidence  in  herself  and  reached  out  towards  some  one 
strong  enough  to  help  her,  perhaps  strong  enough  to  check 
her.  It  was  an  impulse  inspired  by  the  contrast  of  Sonia 
sobbing  in  her  chair  and  Jack's  assured  voice  on  the  tele- 
phone; the  impulse  would  pass,  when  her  nerves  were 
steady  again,  but  her  spirit  was  changed  and  no  longer  self- 
sufficient. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  couldn't  come  to  the  theatre 
with  you  to-morrow,"  she  improvised  and  wondered 
whether  he  would  trouble  to  notice  the  glaring  inadequacy 
of  the  excuse.  She  wondered,  too,  why  she  had  chosen 
Jack  rather  than  another.  .  .  .  "Mr.  Waring,  once  in  a 
way  I  give  a  party  at  Crawleigh ;  no  officials,  no  politicians 
— just  my  friends.  I'm  arranging  one  quite  soon.  Will 
you  come?  Just  for  the  week-end.  It  won't  interfere 
with  your  work." 

Jack  hesitated  and  fingered  his  hat  in  embarrassment. 


i4o  LADY  LILITH 

"You  know,  I'm  no  good  at  that  sort  of  thing,"  ha 
grumbled. 

"But  you  like  talking  to  me, — when  I'm  on  my  good  be- 
haviour." 

"How  long  will  it  last?" 

"As  long  as  you're  there,"  she  laughed. 

"In  other  words,  you're  going  to  make  me  responsible?" 

"Doesn't  that  appeal  to  your  missionary  spirit?" 

Jack  looked  at  her  and  decided  that  even  a  formal 
protest  would  only  feed  her  vanity.  He  stared  abstractedly 
at  her  as  though  she  were  a  horse  led  out  for  his  inspection. 
Suddenly  she  smiled,  and,  as  her  face  lit  up  with  vitality 
and  mischief,  the  haggard  expression  vanished  and  left 
her  beautiful.  Perhaps  the  smile  had  come  in  answer 
to  an  unsuspected  light  of  admiration  in  his  own  eyes; 
perhaps  she  was  a  better  actress  than  he  thought  and  could 
transform  herself  at  will;  no  one  could  gain  her  reputa- 
tion as  a  coquette  without  earning  it  and  working  for  it. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  abuse  me  for  behaving  badly,"  she 
pouted,  "if  you're  too  lazy  to  make  me  behave  well." 

"I  have  a  living  to  earn.  You'd  want  one  man's  un- 
divided attention,"  he  answered. 

"But  I  should  be  very  repaying." 

"You'd  be  amusing  for  a  time.  But  it  would  be  a  wear- 
ing life;  I'm  doubtful  even  about  this  week-end." 

"But  you'll  come?" 

"If  you  haven't  quarrelled  with  me  or  got  into  any  fresh 
scrape  by  then."  He  turned  on  the  door-step  to  shake  hands 
with  her.  "When  you  marry,  Lady  Barbara,  I  shall  send 
your  husband  my  warmest  congratulations." 

"Thank  you.  I  think  that's  the  first  time  you've  come 
near  doing  me  justice." 

"As  a  wedding-present,"  he  continued,  "I  shall  send  him 
a  little  silver-mounted  dog-whip." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

A   MATTER  OF  DUTY 

"My  lord  master,  you  have  heard  the  design  I  am  upon  which 
is  to  marry.  .  .  I  humbly  beseech  you  ...  to  give  me  your  best 
advice  therein."  "Then,"  answered  Pantagruel,  "seeing  you  have 
so  decreed  and  taken  deliberation  theron  .  .  .  what  need  is  there 
of  further  talk  thereof,  but  forthwith  to  put  into  execution  what 
you  have  resolved."  "Yea,  but,"  quoth  Panurge,  "I  would  be  loth 
to  act  anything  therein  without  your  counsel  had  thereto."  "It  is 
my  judgment  also,"  quoth  Pantagruel,  "and  I  advise  you  to  it." 
"Nevertheless,"  quoth  Panurge,  "if  you  think  it  were  much  better 
for  me  to  remain  a  bachelor,  as  I  am,  than  to  run  headlong  upon 
new  hare-brained  undertakings  of  conjugal  adventure,  I  would 
rather  choose  not  to  marry."  "Not  marry  then,"  said  Partagruel. 
"Yea,  but,"  quoth  Panurga,  "would  you  have  me  so  solitarily  drag 
out  the  whole  course  of  my  life  without  the  comfort  of  a  matri- 
monial consort  ?  You  know  it  is  written  Vae  Soli ;  and  a  single 
person  is  never  seen  to  reap  the  joy  and  solace  that  is  found  among 
those  that  are  wedlockt."  "Wedlock  it  -then,  in  the  name  of  God," 
quoth  Pantagruel.  "But  if,"  quoth  Panurge,  ".  .  ." 

Rabelais :  How  Panurge  asketh  counsel  of 
Pantagruel  whether  he  should 
marry  yea  or  no. 

A  WEEK  before  Christmas,  Loring  cabled  to  his  mother 
that  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  England;  in  the  spring  of 
1914  he  landed  at  Southampton  and  travelled  unobtru- 
sively to  London  while  his  yacht  proceeded  to  Glasgow  for 
overhauling  and  repairs.  And,  from  the  moment  when  his 
cable  was  received,  an  unconscious  adjustment  of  relation- 
ships began,  crystallizing  in  a  series  of  informal  family 
councils. 

Ever  since  the  ultimatum  from  Surinam,  Lady  Barbara 
had  not  set  foot  in  House  of  Steynes  or  Loring  House. 
It  was  plausible  to  pretend  that  in  Jim's  absence  his  mother 
was  not  entertaining,  but  on  his  return  all  three  branches 

141 


i42  LADY  LILITH 

of  the  family  decided  that  they  could  not  afford  the  scandal 
of  an  open  breach  and  of  a  Catholic  house  divided  against 
itself.  Lady  Crawleigh  enlisted  the  support  of  Lady 
Knightrider  and  made  an  attack  in  force  on  Lady  Loring. 
Thirty  years  .before,  the  three  sisters  had,  each  in  her  own 
way,  been  celebrated ;  Lady  Crawleigh  had  the  good  looks, 
Lady  Knightrider  the  good  temper  and  Lady  Loring  the 
brains;  and  their  marriages,  one  after  another,  to  a  Scot- 
tish baronet  and  two  of  the  richest  Catholic  peers  in  Eng- 
land were  felt  to  be  fundamentally  satisfactory.  As  they 
had  begun,  so  they  went  on;  Kathleen  Knightrider  bore 
a  daughter  and  a  son,  Eleanor  Loring  a  son  and  a  daughter, 
Doreen  Crawleigh  three  sons  and  two  daughters,  of  whom 
the  younger  died  in  infancy.  The  three  husbands  were 
above  criticism  in  life  and  position;  if  Sir  Charles  Knight- 
rider was  little  more  than  amateur  landscape-gardener  and 
ornithologist,  Lord  Loring  was  very  nearly  at  the  head  of 
the  Catholic  laity  in  England;  while  Lord  Crawleigh's  suc- 
cession of  great  offices,  which  he  not  only  filled  but 
adorned,  would  have  satisfied  the  most  ambitious  woman. 
If  the  individuality  of  the  three  wives  became  merged  in 
their  husbands,  they  still  made  a  strong  social  combination. 

"I  hear  Jim's  on  his  way  home,"  said  Lady  Crawleigh 
without  preamble.  "When  he  comes,  Eleanor,  we  shall 
have  to  make  peace  between  him  and  Barbara." 

"I'll  talk  to  Jim,"  answered  his  mother  doubtfully.  "But 
you  know  how  obstinate  he  is."  She  was  divided  between 
loyalty  to  her  son  and  pity  for  her  sister,  who  could  not 
enjoy  having  to  plead  like  this  for  her  own  daughter.  "I 
do  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  to  dear  Barbara." 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  sighed  Lady  Crawleigh. 

If  she  spoke  without  conviction,  it  was  because  her  brain 
was  giddy  with  successive  shocks.  The  secret  of  Dolly 
May's  death  was  kept  for  exactly  five  days  after  the  inquest. 
Then  a  gaunt  woman,  giving  no  name,  demanded  to  see 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  143 

Barbara  and,  on  hearing  that  she  was  in  the  country, 
bearded  Lord  Crawleigh,  who  promptly  threatened  her  with 
attentions  from  the  police.  All  previous  courts  of  enquiry 
were  trivial  by  comparison  with  the  inquisition  now 
erected ;  but,  as  the  attack  developed,  Barbara's  resistance 
developed  equally,  and  she  warned  her  parents  that,  on 
the  day  when  she  came  of  age,  she  would  move  into  a 
house  of  her  own  where  she  could  receive  friends  of  every 
complexion  and  practice  magic  of  every  colour.  If  the 
form  of  the  threat  was  old,  its  clarity  and  vigour  were 
new;  Barbara  had  less  than  six  months  to  wait  for  her 
majority  and  independence. 

Lady  Crawleigh  was  still  reeling  under  the  shock  of  one 
scandal  averted  and  a  second  in  prospect,  when  her  ener- 
gies were  claimed  by  a  new  problem.  From  an  untraced 
source  came  the  report  that  Barbara  was  becoming  very 
intimate  with  young  Waring.  He  had  spent  a  week-end  at 
the  Abbey,  unobtrusively  burying  himself  in  the  smoking- 
room  for  most  of  the  time ;  and  Barbara  had  included  him 
in  big  and  small  dinner-parties  in  Berkeley  Square.  Save 
that  he  was  a  Protestant  with  only  the  few  hundreds  that 
he  earned,  he  was  unexceptionable;  Eton,  New  College  and 
the  bar  covered  past  and  present,  and  for  the  future  he 
stood  second  in  succession  to  Penley  and  his  uncle's  title; 
in  temperament  and  character  he  was  reported  to  be  dull 
and  wholly  dependable.  It  was  a  paradox  of  Barbara's 
position,  her  mother  felt,  that,  when  the  interlocked  Catho- 
lic families  had  been  ruled  out,  she  seemed  to  have  no 
associates  except  nonentities  like  Gerald  Deganway  and 
John  Gaymer,  who  were  family  furniture  rather  than 
friends,  or  young  politicians,  like  George  Oakleigh,  or 
literary  freaks,  like  Mr.  Arden,  or  the  really  rather  dread- 
ful people  like  the  stout  young  man  with  all  the  cars,  Mr. 
Webster,  who  was  always  getting  her  into  one  scrape  or 
another :  the  less  said  about  them,  the  better.  Barbara  was 


I44  LADY  LILITH 

lamentably  gregarious  in  her  friendships,  but  in  these  latter 
days  all  girls  were  allowed  so  much  liberty,  they  seemed  to 
know  so  much  and  to  be  so  intolerant  of  restraint.  .  .  . 

Lady  Crawleigh  was  not  at  present  equal  to  a  struggle 
on  the  question  of  religion.  The  Church  had  become  un- 
yielding about  mixed  marriages;  that  was  the  wretched 
Sonia  Dainton's  excuse  for  breaking  off  her  engagement 
to  Jim  Loring,  and,  when  she  had  nothing  else  to  disturb 
her  mind,  Lady  Crawleigh  was  haunted  by  the  fear  that 
Barbara,  who  was  deplorably  lax,  would  make  some  ter- 
rible scandal  by  marrying  a  Protestant  without  getting 
a  dispensation.  Of  course,  it  would  not  be  a  true  marriage, 
and  no  Catholic  would  consent  to  know  her, — but  it  was 
the  sort  of  thing  that  Babs  would  do. 

The  untraced  rumour,  like  many  another,  travelled  far 
before  reaching  those  most  intimately  concerned.  Jack 
Waring  had  devoted  so  many  years  to  a  middle-aged  pose 
and  the  ostentatious  avoidance  of  all  social  life  that  his 
own  friends  commented  in  outspoken  amusement  on  his 
recantation.  In  the  winter  months  of  1913  he  began  to  ap- 
pear at  dances,  though  he  still  refused  to  take  an  active 
part.  "Who's  the  man  with  Babs  Neave?"  quickly  became 
"Who's  the  man  who's  always  with  Babs  Neave?"  and, 
before  long,  "Is  anything  going  to  happen  about  Babs 
Neave  and  Jack  Waring?"  Derision  at  the  fall  of  a  mis- 
ogynist passed  through  speculation  to  resentment. 

"Jack  simply  monopolizes  Babs  nowadays,"  complained 
Summertown  one  night  in  the  New  Year  at  a  dance  in  his 
mother's  house.  He  was  aggrieved  at  being  unable  to  at- 
tract Barbara's  notice  and  had  summoned  Deganway, 
Arden  and  Oakleigh  to  a  meeting  of  protest  in  the  smok- 
ing-room. "Wonder  what  she  sees  in  him,"  he  grumbled. 
"He's  a  good  fellow  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — capital 
company  on  a  desert  island,  if  you  wanted  plenty  of  bar 
shop,  but  he's  taking  all  the  bubble  out  of  her.  I  tried  to 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  145 

rope  her  in  for  my  party  at  the  Albert  Hall,  but,  when 
she  heard  who  was  coming,  she  refused.  Damned  offen- 
sive, I  thought.  'Said  that  people  had  been  talking  about 
her  so  much  that  she  had  to  be  very  careful.  And  old 
Jack  nodded — you  could  see  she  was  doing  it  to  please 
him;  it'll  be  an  awful  chuck-away  if  she  marries  him." 

"She  will  not  marry  him,"  Arden  predicted.  "If  for  no 
other  reason,  Lady  Lilith  has  still  to  discover  a  heart." 

"What's  she  doing  it  for,  then?"  asked  Oakleigh.  "I'm 
very  fond  of  Jack,  he's  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  but  he's 
rather  a  bore." 

"What  man  can  choose  from  among  a  woman's  mo- 
tives?" demanded  Arden.  "Perhaps  she  finds  a  difficulty 
in  getting  rid  of  him.  There  was  a  time  when  she  was 
certainly  intrigued,  when  she  pursued  him  relentlessly. 
Perhaps  she  feels  a  glow  of  respectability  from  his  pres- 
ence; one's  cook,  if  not  a  cordon  bleu,  was  recommended 
to  one  as  'a  regular  communicant.'  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  chose 
him  to  see  what  she  could  make  of  him,  as  le  Bon  Dieu 
chose  the  Jews.  But  she  will  not  marry  him.  .  .  .  One  has 
a  certain  instinct." 

He  shook  his  head  sagaciously  and  dismissed  the  sub- 
ject. But  a  new  mile-stone  had  been  reached  when  four 
men  could  be  found  gathering  to  discuss  Jack's  marriage 
to  Barbara  as  even  a  remote  possibility.  Similar  discus- 
sions had  for  some  weeks  taken  place  in  little  groups 
round  the  walls  of  the  ball-rooms.  Lady  Knightrider, 
who  had  known  Jack  longest  and  best,  confided  to  a  friend 
that  he  was  an  excellent  influence,  a  man  who  would  stand 
no  nonsense  from  the  girl;  he  was  fearless  and  unmoved 
by  Barbara's  tantrums  and  had  once  spoken  very  sensibly 
when  she  revived  the  absurd  project  of  leaving  her  parents 
and  taking  a  house  by  herself.  That  evening  Phyllis 
Knightrider  epitomised  and  retailed  a  conversation  which 
she  had  not  been  intended  to  hear  by  saying  to  Barbara, 


i46  LADY  LILITH 

as  they  drove  to  the  dance,  "Mother's  quite  made  up  her 
mind  that  you  ought  to  marry  Jack  Waring.  She  says  he's 
the  only  man  she  knows  who  can  keep  you  in  order." 

The  attack  was  opened  three  hours  later  from  the  op- 
posite flank,  when  Gerald  Deganway  put  up  his  eye-glass 
and  stared  at  Jack  with  an  affectation  of  shocked  gravity. 

"My  dear,  every  one's  talking  about  you,"  he  exclaimed. 
"It's  becoming  quite  a  scandal." 

'What's  becoming  a  scandal  ?"  asked  Jack. 

"You  and  Babs  Neave." 

"What  a  pity  it  is  that  people  can't  mind  their  own  busi- 
ness !" 

Any  one  acquainted  with  Deganway  knew  better  than  to 
take  his  gossip  at  face-value,  but  Jack  was  amazed  to  find 
that  he  had  given  material  for  chatter  and  speculation  even 
to  Deganway.  To  be  a  friend  of  Barbara  Neave,  as  Arden 
once  said,  was  like  going  for  a  walk  with  an  arc-lamp ;  but 
they  had  been  frigidly  circumspect  and  restrained.  Two 
week-ends  at  Crawleigh  Abbey,  perhaps  six  dinners  in 
London  and  twice  that  number  of  dances,  where  he  looked 
in  at  supper-time  and  left  after  an  hour,  covered  their 
public  intimacy.  For  a  moment  Jack  was  roused  to  violent 
irritation  towards  Deganway,  then  he  dismissed  the  irrita- 
tion in  gratitude  for  the  warning.  There  was  no  time  to 
lose,  if  this  kind  of  nonsense  was  being  talked,  and  he  sta- 
tioned himself  at  the  door  of  the  ball-room  and  pounced 
upon  Barbara  at  the  end  of  the  dance. 

"You're  not  really  hungry,  are  you?"  she  asked,  when 
he  suggested  that  they  should  have  supper  together. 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  he  answered. 

Barbara  started  imperceptibly.  Jack  was  less  self-pos- 
sessed than  usual ;  of  any  other  man  she  would  argue  from 
a  varied  experience  that  he  meditated  proposing  to  her. 

"I'll  come  down,  if  you  like,"  she  answered  gently.  She 
always  achieved  success  with  Jack  when  her  voice  grew 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  147 

caressing  and  she  promised  to  do  a  thing,  if  he  liked.  "I 
hope  I'm  not  in  disgrace?" 

"You?  Oh,  no.  I'm  going  away  on  circuit  to-morrow, 
though,"  he  said,  tidying  away  a  litter  of  dirty  plates  from 
the  only  unoccupied  table. 

"When  will  you  be  back?" 

Jack  helped  her  to  a  cutlet  as  though  he  were  serving  out 
rations,  sprinkled  his  own  with  salt,  cut  his  roll  in  two, 
prospected  for  a  clean  glass  and  poured  out  some  cham- 
pagne, which  he  tasted  cautiously,  with  a  murmured,  "  '04 
Bellinger!  It's  a  crime  to  waste  that  on  a  ball!"  For  a 
man  not  naturally  greedy,  supper  was  very  absorbing. 

"I  shall  be  away  for  a  week  or  two,"  he  explained,  pre- 
cipitately adding,  "at  least." 

Barbara's  eyes  were  on  his  face,  but  he  had  no  attention 
to  spare  from  the  cutlet. 

"Ring  me  up,  when  you  come  back,  and  suggest  a  night 
for  dinner,"  she  said. 

"I  shall  have  a  good  deal  of  work  to  do  when  I  get 
back.  I've  been  getting  very  slack  lately.  And  dissi- 
pated; you've  been  making  me  keep  too  late  hours." 

Barbara  sighed  wearily. 

"As  if  I  'made'  you  do  anything!  Will  you  be  back  be- 
fore Easter?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Would  you  like  to  come  to  Crawleigh  for  Easter?" 

He  went  through  the  same  ceremonial  with  a  second  cut- 
let and  then  said,  without  looking  up: 

"I  shall  be  going  to  my  people  for  Easter." 

Barbara  raised  her  eyebrows  and  turned  half  away. 

"I  apologize,"  she  murmured. 

"Why?" 

"For  bothering  you  with  unwelcome  invitations." 

This  time  there  was  no  hesitation,  though  Jack  was  con- 
scious that  his  voice  and  lips  were  unsteady. 


i48  LADY  LILITH 

"It  doesn't  do  much  good,  does  it?"  he  asked  with  a  lop- 
sided smile. 

"What  doesn't?" 

"Our  meeting." 

"I  thought  you  liked  being  with  me;  and  I  thought  it 
gratified  your  missionary  spirit,"  she  added  tartly. 

"But  does  it  do  much  good — beyond  affording  a  topic 
of  conversation  for  congenital  idiots?  I'm  looking  ahead, 
Lady  Barbara." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

Jack  glanced  at  her  for  the  first  time.  He  imagined  that 
he  could  look  her  in  the  eyes  without  embarrassment;  but 
his  hand  trembled,  and  he  saw  that  he  had  spilt  the  cham- 
pagne. She  must  have  seen  it,  too;  she  could  be  in  no 
doubt  of  his  meaning.  He  had  intended  to  warn  her  that 
the  congenital  idiots  were  coupling  their  names ;  and  he  had 
now  to  warn  himself  that,  if  he  saw  any  more  of  the  girl, 
if  she  ever  again  looked  at  him  through  smiling,  half-closed 
eyes,  murmuring  that  she  would  do  what  he  wished  be- 
cause he  wished  it,  he  was  quite  capable  of  making  a  fool 
of  himself.  It  would  not  be  serious,  because  any  union 
between  a  Catholic  and  the  straitly  reared  son  of  bitterly 
Evangelical  parents  was  unthinkable;  it  would  not  be  se- 
rious, because  every  one  knew  that  Barbara  would  soon 
have  seven  thousand  a  year  of  her  own,  provided  always 
that  she  married  a  Catholic,  while  he  might  hope  very 
shortly  to  be  making  seven  hundred  a  year,  which  already 
had  to  pay  for  the  rent  of  chambers  and  club  bedroom, 
share  of  clerk,  subscription  to  Law  Reports,  expenses  of 
circuit,  club  subscriptions,  food,  drink,  tobacco,  clothes 
and  sundries.  It  would  not  be  serious,  but  it  might  be 
very  unsettling. 

"You  see  .  .  .  I'm — a  practising  barrister,"  he  ex- 
plained. "That  means  that  I  work  for  my  living  and  am 
looking  forward  to  doing  so  for  the  best  part  of  my  life." 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  149 

"And  I've  been  wasting  your  time?  I'm  sorry,  Jack.  I 
like  you,  when  you're  gentle  and  don't  find  fault  with  me. 
I  didn't  mean  to  be  selfish." 

She  had  not  thought  it  prudent  to  use  his  Christian  name 
since  the  disastrous  night  of  the  Croxton  Ball. 

"I've  loved  it,"  he  answered.  "I  always  told  you  that  I 
thought  a  tremendous  lot  of  you.  But  I  have  to  work.  I 
sometimes  think  that,  so  long  as  a  man's  decently  dressed, 
a  girl  never  bothers  to  think  whether  he's  got  twopence  a 
year  or  ten  thousand,"  he  added  with  a  touch  of  bitter- 
ness. 

"Can't  you  manage  Easter  at  Crawleigh?"  she  asked. 

He  picked  up  his  gloves  and  offered  her  a  cigarette. 

"Don't  you  understand?" 

"I  don't  understand  about  money;  people  make  such  an 
absurd  fuss  over  it.  I  understand  that,  as  usual,  you're 
making  me  ask  twice  for  what  most  men  would  give  me 
without  asking;  and  that's  sometimes  a  little  humiliating. 
Still,  you  say  I'm  a  law  unto  myself.  Will  you  come  ?"  He 
still  hesitated;  and  she  leaned  forward  with  her  hand  on 
his  sleeve.  "Have  I  ever  refused  to  do  anything  you 
asked?" 

"I  don't  think  you  have,"  said  Jack  slowly.  "I — shall  be 
delighted  to  come." 

He  drove  her  home  that  night,  wondering  what  she 
meant  by  saying  in  such  a  context  that  she  was  a  law  unto 
herself.  As  the  taxi  left  Berkeley  Square,  he  half  thought 
of  driving  to  the  Temple  and  talking  to  Eric  Lane.  But 
he  had  nothing  to  say  and  did  not  know  what  he  wanted. 
He  was  elated  and  a  little  frightened;  never  before  had  he 
so  sorely  needed  cold,  brutal  advice ;  and  this  question,  which 
he  did  not  yet  dare  to  define,  was  one  which  he  would  have 
to  solve  by  himself.  As  he  undressed,  he  wondered  what 
Barbara  was  doing,  what  she  had  meant,  whether  she  had 
meant  anything.  .  .  . 


I5o  LADY  LILITH 

He  was  away  from  London  for  three  weeks ;  and  in  that 
time  he  unhurriedly  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  her.  Ly- 
ing awake  in  his  berth  on  the  night  train  to  Newcastle,  he 
decided  that  he  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  the 
Croxton  ball.  As  a  bachelor  his  responsibilities  and 
troubles  were  confined  within  the  four  walls  of  his  bedroom 
at  a  very  comfortable  club ;  he  lived  like  a  prince  on  four 
or  five  hundred  a  year;  and  he  had  never  needed  the  com- 
panionship of  a  woman — least  of  all,  of  a  woman  whom  he 
had  instinctively  avoided  for  three  years  and  who  quar- 
relled with  him  daily  when  they  had  at  last  met.  He  ap- 
preciated now  that  they  quarrelled  because  he  could  not 
bear  to  see  her  cheapening  herself,  because  he  was  already 
in  love  with  her. 

And  she  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  him  at  the  same 
time;  though  he  lectured  her  until  she  broke  down  and 
cried,  she  begged  him  to  come  back  and  give  her  another 
chance.  The  night  when  she  first  invited  him  to  dine 
with  her  marked  her  transition  to  certainty,  but  it  was 
only  when  they  were  parting  that  their  two  certainties 
engaged  and  interlocked.  While  he  pronged  his  cutlet 
and  sprinkled  it  with  salt,  eyes  prudently  averted,  each 
discovered  that  the  other  was  becoming  a  habit;  he  liked 
her  sudden  petulance  and  sudden  softening,  her  restless 
changes  and  lightning  vitality;  and  he  wondered  in  sudden 
humility  what  she,  with  her  charm  and  quickness,  could  see 
in  him.  Her  family,  hitherto  friendly,  would  be  disap- 
pointed ;  for  she  could  marry  any  one,  and  they  would  mur- 
mur that  she  had  thrown  herself  away  on  a  poor  man  who 
might,  indeed,  gamble  his  way  into  silk,  but  would  never 
rise  to  the  Bench,  the  Appeal  Court  or  the  House  of  Lords. 
She  would  forfeit  her  godfather's  fortune  by  marrying  a 
Protestant ;  and,  if  they  were  to  live  at  all,  the  Crawleighs 
must  come  to  their  aid.  Perhaps  the  Crawleighs  disliked 
mixed  marriages  as  much  as  the  Warings.  .  .  . 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  151 

Jack  turned  on  the  light  and  frowned  at  the  imitation- 
maple-wood  compartment.  He  must  be  prepared  for  a 
struggle.  Imprimis  the  theological  history  of  the  Warings 
began  with  Zachary  Macaulay,  diverged  into  abolitionism, 
collected  and  tidied  itself  under  Lord  John  Russell  and  the 
No-Popery  movement  and  came  to  an  inglorious  and  un- 
seen end,  when  the  family  purged  itself  politically  of  a  whig 
taint.  Mr.  Kensit  was  a  tough,  awkward  mouthful,  and, 
in  the  absence  of  a  more  restrained  leader,  the  Warings 
did  their  good  to  Protestantism  by  stealth.  The  colonel 
fought  an  honourable  fight  for  the  Geneva  gown ;  he  talked 
of  "clergymen"  and  "communion-tables,"  where  others 
lisped  papistically  of  "priests"  and  "altars" ;  and  there  were 
heated  and  unconvincing  arguments  in  the  vicarage  library 
about  the  ornaments  rubric.  But,  if  they  no  longer  took 
a  part  in  public  ecclesiastical  controversy,  the  family  would 
choke  at  Barbara's  name.  The  colonel  was  vaguely  dis- 
quieted when  Jack,  under  the  guidance  of  Jim  Loring, 
drifted  into  "that  Catholic  set"  (he  refrained  from  calling 
them  Papists  out  of  consideration  for  Jack's  feelings,  but 
he  frequently  abbeviated  their  definitition  to  "R.  C's)  ;  to 
marry  an  "R.  C."  was  hardly  more  venial  than  to  marry 
a  black  woman  or  to  wear  a  ring  in  one's  nose.  And  since 
this  insolent  Ne  temere  decree  .  .  . 

Jack  had  heard  it  quoted,  but  had  never  sought  enlighten- 
ment lest  he  should  pour  oil  on  the  sinking  fires.  Colonel 
Waring  treated  religious  controversy  as  his  safety-valve 
and  needed  no  encouragement.  But  it  was  time  for  Jack  to 
find  out  where  he  stood. 

Val  Arden  was  discovered  unexpectedly  in  the  hotel  at 
Leeds,  and  Jack  invited  him  to  dine  with  the  bar  mess  after 
the  first  day  of  the  Assizes. 

"One  was  persuaded  to  deliver  a  lecture,"  the  novelist 
explained.  "The  hard-headed  men  of  the  West  Riding  will 
think  twice  before  repeating  the  venture;  but  it  was  an 


1 52  LADY  LILITH 

experience  for  them,  and  one  escaped  with  one's  life.  The 
North  is  very  remote.  One  is  still  remembered  in  London  ? 
Yes?  One's  friends  are  in  reasonable  health?" 

"They're  bearing  up,"  Jack  answered.  "Jim  Loring's 
back  in  England." 

"A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  one  hears.  Well,  if  a  man 
wants  romance,  he  must  be  prepared  to  pay  for  it.  One 
feels  that  it  is  worth  the  inconvenience  of  three  years'  exile 
not  to  be  married  to  Sonia  Dainton.  You  know  the  full 
sad  story?  No?  It  should  be  a  lesson." 

At  dinner  he  weighted  his  gossip  and  airy  moralizing 
with  serviceable  information.  Jack  learned  that  a  Catholic 
could  only  obtain  dispensation  for  a  mixed  marriage,  if  the 
non-Catholic  undertook  that  all  the  children  of  the  marriage 
should  be  brought  up  in  the  Catholic  faith.  It  seemed 
an  unequal  stipulation,  but  the  only  alternative  was  for  the 
Catholic  to  defy  the  Church  and  to  renounce  his  faith, 
which  was  no  less  unequal.  When  Arden  was  gone  to  bed, 
Jack  surveyed  the  problem  from  the  standpoint  of  his 
family,  of  Barbara  and  of  himself.  There  would  be  a 
bitter  fight  at  Red  Roofs  and  another  at  Crawleigh  Abbey; 
but  the  alternative  was  to  give  up  Barbara.  Neither  of 
them  submitted  easily  to  opposition. 

He  returned  to  London  a  few  days  before  Easter,  only 
concerned  to  wonder  how  a  man  prepared  the  ground  be- 
fore asking  a  girl  to  marry  him;  he  had  talked  vaguely 
of  admiration,  but  he  had  never  made  love  to  Barbara. 
And  he  must  find  out  whether  the  Crawleighs  regarded  him 
as  a  persona,  grata.  And  he  must  explain  to  Barbara  his 
financial  position  and  the  kind  of  life  that  a  barrister  led; 
and  they  must  have  a  talk  about  this  religious  busi- 
ness. .  .  . 

Barbara  herself,  and  the  party  which  she  had  gathered 
for  Easter  at  the  Abbey,  gave  him  generous  opportunity. 
With  Loring  and  his  sister,— both  persuaded  by  their 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  153 

mother  "to  give  Babs  one  last  chance" — with  Summertown 
and  Sally  Farwell,  Pentyre,  Victor  Knightrider,  Gerald 
Deganway,  Charles  Framlingham  and  a  leavening  of  the 
Crawleighs'  official  friends  to  entertain  one  another,  there 
was  no  difficulty  in  slipping  away  unobserved.  So  long  as 
Barbara  distributed  herself  equitably  at  luncheon  and 
dinner,  no  one  seemed  to  miss  her  at  other  times ;  and,  as 
Jack  did  not  play  bridge,  some  one  had  to  talk  to  him  in 
the  evenings. 

She  welcomed  him  with  the  mood  and  language  of  their 
last  night  together  in  London. 

"Well,  I  hope  the  practising  barrister  made  a  lot  of 
money,"  she  said  to  him  the  first  evening  after  dinner. 

"I  had  rather  a  good  assize,"  he  answered.  "My  fair 
share  at  Leeds  and  more  than  my  fair  share  at  Newcastle. 
In  money,  it  wouldn't  seem  much — to  you,  but  I'm  quite 
pleased." 

A  word  of  congratulation  launched  him  on  a  conscien- 
tious survey  of  his  fees  and  cases  from  the  delivery  of  his 
first  brief.  In  succeeding  conversation  he  threw  further 
slabs  of  information  at  her  by  schedule,  talking  of  himself 
with  simple-minded  absorption.  Finance  was  polished  off 
the  first  night ;  the  Waring  family,  three  times  sub-divided, 
occupied  the  following  day,  and  with  healthy  relentlessness 
he  overhauled  Catholicism  in  particular  and  revealed  reli- 
gion in  general. 

The  conversation,  if  one-sided  and  monotonous,  was  at 
least  amicable  until  a  smouldering  brand  from  the  theo- 
logical bonfire,  waved  to  life  in  the  kindling  breeze  of  per- 
sonality, set  her  ablaze. 

"Of  course,  the  whole  bag  of  tricks  wants  overhauling," 
said  Jack  of  the  Established  Church  and  its  liturgy. 
"When  a  fellow's  ordained,  he  says  he  believes  all  sorts  of 
things  that  he  doesn't,  really.  Every  congregation  mouths 
responses  like  so  many  parrots,  but  if  you  tackled  any 


i54  LADY  LILITH 

single  member  with  a  plain  question,  he'd  have  to  admit 
that  he  didn't  believe  the  whole  business  exactly  as  it's  set 
out  in  the  pleadings.  Well,  I've  got  a  legal  mind.  If  you 
say  Christ  descended  into  Hell  and  on  the  third  day  rose 
again  from  the  dead  and  ascended  into  Heaven,  I  want  to 
know  if  you  mean  it  literally  or  figuratively?  That's  one 
of  the  beauties  of  your  Church;  you  don't  admit  any  doubt 
or  vagueness." 

"  What  are  the  laws  of  nature,  not  to  bend 
If  the  Church  bid  them?'" 

murmured  Barbara. 

"You  believe  that?" 

"It  was  a  quotation.    I'm  sorry." 

"It's  a  logical  point  of  view.  With  us  you  pick  and 
choose.  In  the  marriage  service  it's  becoming  the  fashion 
for  a  girl  to  say  she'll  'love  and  honour'  her  husband. 
Now,  the  Prayer  Book  says,  'love,  honour  and  obey.'  If  I 
were  a  parson,  I'd  refuse  to  go  on  with  the  service  until 
she'd  said  'obey.' " 

"But  if  she  doesn't  mean  to?"  asked  Barbara.  "I  think 
it's  degrading." 

"If  it  comes  to  a  tussle,  the  woman  has  to  give  in;  so 
why  is  she  degraded  by  recognizing  it  and  promising  be- 
forehand?" 

"She  doesn't  have  to.  You  couldn't  make  me — even  with 
a  dog-whip." 

Though  he  affected  a  laugh,  Jack  had  many  times  regret- 
ted the  phrase.  Barbara  kept  it  in  the  forefront  of  her 
memory  and  persistently  threw  it  down  as  a  challenge  to 
herself,  when  her  natural  independence  flagged. 

"You'd  obey  me  without  that.  You  can't  have  two  cap- 
tains on  one  ship.  I  don't  suppose  that  any  modern  hus- 
band goes  about  saying,  'I  order  you  to  do  this';  he  tries 
to  dovetail  their  two  lives  into  one " 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  15$ 

"Then  there  wouldn't  be  much  obedience,  if  I  always 
got  my  own  way." 

"That  you  certainly  wouldn't  do !"  he  laughed. 

"What  d'you  mean  ?" 

Jack  looked  down  the  long  drawing-room  and  reflected 
before  answering.  It  was  the  last  night  of  his  visit  to  Craw- 
leigh  Abbey,  and  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  a  declaration. 
Though  he  had  conscientiously  put  Barbara  in  possession 
of  all  material  information,  she  had  received  it  without 
comment.  In  four  days  he  had  not  brought  her  any  nearer ; 
sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  not  trying  to  help  him, 
and  all  that  he  had  achieved  was  to  fall  four  days  more  in 
love  with  her.  Instinctively  he  felt  that  this  was  not  the 
most  favourable  time  for  a  parade  of  authority;  but  he 
had  defined  his  attitude  towards  every  other  relevant  issue, 
and  it  was  tidier  not  to  leave  his  task  unfinished.  Before 
marriage  or  immediately  after,  he  would  have  to  indicate 
certain  people  whom  he  did  not  care  for  her  to  meet,  cer- 
tain things  that  he  did  not  care  for  her  to  do.  The  theatri- 
cal connection,  for  instance,  would  have  to  be  cut ;  Colonel 
Waring  often  said  that,  thirty  years  ago,  an  actress  was 
never  received  at  the  big  houses.  Now  there  was  a  con- 
siderable group,  ranging  from  Manders  at  the  top  to  quar- 
ter-bred anonymities  at  the  bottom,  who  regarded  her  as 
belonging  to  their  world. 

"If  you  were  married  to  me,  I  should  change  your  mode 
of  life — drastically,"  he  answered. 

"What  do  you  find  so  very  unsatisfactory  in  it?" 

Her  tone  was  in  itself  a  warning;  but,  if  she  challenged 
him  to  make  out  his  case,  Jack  could  not  refuse  the  chal- 
lenge. 

"You're  too  big  for  your  company,"  he  began  from  the 
familiar  text.  "Take  me  as  a  typical  case.  I  knew  of  you 
years  before  I  knew  you ;  and  I — on  account  of  your  friends, 
you  know — I'd  have  gone  miles  to  avoid  meeting  you.  To 


i56  LADY  LILITH 

me— and  the  world  at  large— you  were  simply  a  girl  who 
forced  yourself  into  the  limelight  and  got  up  to  mischief 
with  people  that  you  simply  ought  never  to  have  known. 
Since  I've  got  to  know  you  and  like  you,  by  Jove,  I'd  give 
ten  years  of  my  life  to  get  wwsaid  the  sort  of  things  I  used 
to  hear  about  you.  I  remember  thinking,  before  I  met  you, 
'If  she  were  my  sister  ..." 

"What  kind  of  things  did  you  hear?"  asked  Barbara 
quietly. 

"I  needn't  particularize,"  he  answered. 

Barbara  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  relaxed  her  atten- 
tion, only  to  concentrate  it  again  as  she  found  him  particu- 
larizing in  merciless  detail.  There  were  crimes,  misde- 
meanours and  sins  of  the  spirit.  The  stolen  car,  the 
mangled  chauffeur  and  the  endless,  unforgettable  inquest 
were  dragged  to  the  light;  Jack  spared  her  the  coroner's 
rasping  comments,  but  he  could  not  resist  another  allusion 
to  the  Surinam  cable.  There  was  a  raided  roulette-party, 
when  Summertown  had  helped  her  into  safety  by  the  fire- 
escape.  (She  found  time  to  wonder  how  he  had  heard  of 
it;  either  Val  Arden  or  Summertown  was  running  up  a 
bill  against  himself.)  There  was  an  embarrassing  encoun- 
ter at  a  night  club,  where  she  had  gone  with  Sir  Adolf 
Erckmann's  party :  all  would  have  been  well,  if  Sonia  Dain- 
ton  had  not  come  with  Webster  and  if  Webster  had  not 
been  drunk.  As  it  was,  there  had  been  the  makings  of  un- 
pleasantness. George  Oakleigh  had  taken  Sonia  home, 
Webster  had  become  quite  helpless;  and,  in  trying  to  dis- 
pose of  him,  they  had  all  attracted  a  good  deal  of  notice. 
Then  there  was  the  episode  of  Madame  Hilary.  So  much 
for  the  crimes. 

"You  take  a  great  interest  in  the  movements  of  some  one 
you  despise,"  commented  Barbara.  She  wondered  why  she 
consented  to  listen  to  him,  but  she  was  unequal  to  the  self- 
denial  of  going  away  while  she  was  being  discussed. 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  157 

"My  dear  girl,  these  things  fly  from  one  end  of  London 
to  the  other  almost  before  you've  done  them.  You  won't 
recognize  how  well  known  you  are !  D'you  appreciate  that 
I  should  let  myself  in  for  a  first-class  row  with  my  people, 
if  I  told  them  that  we  were  friends?  All  rot,  of  course; 
but  there  you  are." 

After  the  crimes,  the  misdemeanours — the  innocent  things 
which  she  was  "too  big"  to  do.  The  one  tiresome  phrase 
was  reinforced  by  others  as  insistent  and  tiresome.  Some 
one — probably  his  stiff  little  sister — had  taught  him  the 
word  "grisette."  "That  may  be  all  very  well  for  a  grisette, 
but  you  .  .  ."  Some  one — probably  his  mother — had 
divided  a  girl's  behaviour  into  what  was  "hoydenish"  and 
what  was  not;  Barbara  felt  that  she  had  all  the  markings  of 
a  pedigree  hoyden.  He  contributed  a  few  phrases  of  his 
own,  assuring  her  gravely  that  this  or  that  was  "simply  not 
done,  you  know;"  and,  as  other  men  drew  breath  before 
embarking  on  a  new  sentence,  he  introduced  every  new 
count  in  the  indictment  with  an  apology  that  was  but  a 
veiled  further  reproach.  "I  expect  you  think  I'm  an  awful 
prude  ..."  "I  may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I've  always 
been  brought  up  to  believe  ..." 

After  the  misdemeanours,  the  sins  of  the  spirit. 

"You  admit  that  you're  frightfully  vain  and  spoiled,"  he 
began  pleasantly.  "You  admit  that  you  expect  every  one  to 
do  exactly  what  you  want  without  even  being  asked  ..." 

He  traced  the  deleterious  effect  of  such  vanity  on  her 
character.  Whatever  was  going  on — from  a  pageant  to  a 
sale  of  work — she  must  be  in  it;  her  photograph  must  be 
in  every  paper.  And,  when  there  was  no  opportunity  for 
public  display,  she  made  it,  forced  it.  Hence  this  chain  of 
escapades;  it  was  self-advertisement,  and,  God  knew,  she 
was  too  big  for  that  sort  of  thing. 

At  first  Barbara  listened  in  amazement;  then  she  became 
so  angry  that  her  attention  wandered,  as  she  debated 


I58  LADY  LILITH 

whether  to  stalk  out  of  the  room  or  to  turn  on  him  with 
all  her  resources  of  invective.  But  to  run  away  was  to 
spare  him  his  punishment.  He  should  apologize  for  each 
word,  on  his  knees.  And  when  he  had  made  recantation, 
he  could  go. 

"If  you  were  my  wife,  I  should  have  to  change  all  that," 
he  ended. 

Barbara  touched  her  cheeks  and  was  surprised  to  find 
them  cool. 

"You've — rather  made  mincemeat  of  me,"  she  sighed, 
because  a  sigh  loosed  some  of  her  pent  anger,  and  she 
could  not  be  sure  of  her  speaking  voice.  "Jack,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  vanity,  do  you  think  I've  got  any  pride?  .  .  . 
Let's  go  and  see  how  the  others  are  getting  on.  It's  such 
a  pity  you  don't  play  bridge." 

As  he  got  up,  Jack  touched  her  hand. 

"I  say,  have  I  said  anything  to  offend  you?" 

"A  fly  isn't  'offended'  when  some  boy  pulls  its  legs  out 
one  by  one.  Please  let  go  my  hand,  Jack!  You  must  ad- 
mit I've  listened  patiently;  I've  not  said  a  word  in  my 
defence — I  suppose  you  think  there's  nothing  to  be  said  ;— 
but  I  don't  feel  I  can  stand  any  more.  ...  Or  do  you  want 
to  make  me  cry  again?" 

Her  eyes  opened  and  shut  quickly;  and,  by  the  time  that 
she  turned  to  him,  they  were  filled  with  tears. 

"Barbara !  It  had  to  be  said  some  time !  But  I  honestly 
didn't  mean  to  hurt  you.  Listen " 

"Not  in  my  own  house !  I  do  count  for  something  here ! 
Don't  make  me  cry!  Don't  humiliate  me  before  all  of 
them!  It's  only  to-night.  You  need  never  see  me  again." 

Her  sudden  abasement  inflamed  him  as  though  he  had 
struck  her  and  she  were  begging  for  mercy. 

"Barbara !  forgive  me !  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

Though  both  were  speaking  almost  in  whispers,  there 
was  a  change  in  his  voice.  Barbara  looked  at  him  mistily 


A  MATTER  OF  DUTY  159, 

through  a  film  of  tears  and  saw  that  he  was  going  to  ask 
her  to  marry  him  before  she  was  ready.  When  the  time 
came,  it  should  be  of  her  choosing;  and  they  would  not  be 
at  one  end  of  a  room  with  three  bridge-tables  at  the  other. 

"No!  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  May  I?  It's  my  turn, 
Jack."  As  she  smiled  at  him,  a  tear  trickled  down  her 
cheek,  and  she  brushed  it  away  with  her  hand.  He  stared 
at  her  without  understanding,  for,  though  she  could  be 
regal  or  pathetic,  she  seemed  incapable  of  ill-temper  or  re- 
sentment. "Don't  you  see  that,  with  father,  I  was  brought 
up  in  the  limelight  since  I  was  a  child?  Try  to  imagine 
how  much  I've  always  done  and  then  tell  me  if  I'm  likely 
to  be  content  with — well,  the  very  domestic  life  you  say 
your  sister  leads.  Remember,"  too,  that  I've  a  passion 
for  some  things,  which  you  could  never  understand.  You 
don't  like  Sir  Adolf,  no  more  do  I,  but  I'd  go  anywhere 
for  good  music.  And,  more  than  that,  I'd  be  friends  with 
any  one,  if  he  had  temperament  and  interested  me.  I  want 
the  u'hole  of  life  ...  If  a  thing's  not  wrong,  I  don't  care 
whether  it's  unconventional:  if  there's  nothing  wrong  in 
roulette,  if  I  play  it  under  my  father's  eyes  at  Monte  Carlo, 
I'll  play  it  in  London ;  and,  if  there's  a  silly  law  to  drive  an 
innocent  thing  under  ground,  I'll  play  it  under  ground. 
'Publish  and  be  damned.  Your  affectionate  Wellington.' 
I  admire  people  who  are  too  big  to  mind  what's  said  in  the 
servants'  hall.  .  .  .  But  don't  let's  wrangle  on  our  last 
night!  I'm  sorry  if  I've  disappointed  you." 

As  she  took  a  step  towards  the  bridge-tables,  Jack  felt 
that  he  was  losing  her;  yet  he  would  only  stultify  himself 
by  an  apology. 

"I'm — afraid  I  don't  put  things  very  happily,"  he  com- 
promised. 

"No  more  than  that?" 

"Well,  it's  your  turn  now." 

"I  could  never  criticize  one  of  my  guests." 


160  LADY  LILITH 

She  gave  him  time  to  see  that  no  reply  was  possible, 
then  took  another  step  towards  the  bridge-players.  More 
strongly  than  ever  he  felt  that  he  was  losing  her. 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  one  of  your  guests  again,  Barbara." 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled  with  tired  gentleness. 
Jack  discovered  that  she  was  capable,  in  her  quiet  passages, 
of  great  dignity,  which  contributed  to  his  general  concep- 
tion of  her  as  "big"  and  punished  him  more  completely 
than  if  she  had  lost  her  temper  and  made  a  scene. 

"But  you  can't  like  hurting  me.  .  .  .  And  I've  tried  to 
be  so  sweet  to  you.  You  don't  want  to  come  again  ?" 

"But  I  do." 

He  hoped  to  hear  her  say  "Why?"  so  that  he  could  re- 
cover ground  and  secure  a  good  jumping-off  place  for  their 
next  meeting. 

"Then  I'll  ask  you.  I  told  you  at  Croxton  that  I  loved 
doing  what  people  asked.  We  shall  be  coming  up  to  London 
next  week.  But  I  shall  never  make  you  see  my  point  of 
view." 

"I  think  I've  made  you  see  mine." 

Barbara  turned  away  without  answering,  and  Jack  in- 
terpreted her  silence  as  surrender.  She  whispered  good- 
night to  her  mother  and  went  to  her  room  for  fear  of  in- 
sulting him  in  public.  Everything  could  be  forgiven  except 
this  last  blatant,  avowed  assumption  that  he  had  bullied 
her  into  submission.  His  punishment  became  a  matter  of 
duty. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A    MATTER  OF  PLEASURE 

"But  what  will  not  ambition  and  revenge 
Descend  to?    Who  aspires,  must  down  as  low 
As  high  he  spar'd,  obnoxious,  first  or  last, 
To  basest  things.    Revenge,  at  first  though  sweet 
Bitter  ere  long,  back  on  itself  recoils.  .  ." 

MILTON:    "PARADISE  LOST." 

"My  Dear  Barbara, 

"I  have  seen  so  little  of  you  lately  that  I  don't  know  what 
your  movements  are.  Are  you  expecting  me  at  the  Abbey 
next  week-end?  And  shall  I  find  you  at  Ross  House  on 
Friday?  I  particularly  want  to  talk  to  you. 

"Ever  yours, 

"JACK  WARING." 

The  letter,  written  nearly  a  month  after  Barbara's  Easter 
party,  was  Jack's  first  documentary  admission  that  a  state 
of  war  had  been  proclaimed  and  that  he  was  tardily  con- 
scious of  it.  On  returning  to  London,  Barbara  invited  him 
to  dine,  as  she  had  promised ;  but  she  invited  so  many 
other  people  at  the  same  time  that  he  had  little  opportunity 
of  talking  to  her.  In  the  excitement  and  rush  of  the  early 
season,  as  she  darted  from  dinner  to  play  and  from  play 
to  ball,  it  was  impossible  to  catch  her  in  a  serious  mood. 
Jack  followed  at  a  non-committal  distance  and  tried  to  get 
her  to  himself  occasionally  for  a  moment  at  supper;  but, 
after  he  had  made  two  of  these  abortive  attempts,  she  ex- 
plained with  gentle  reproof  that  it  was  hardly  fair  to  ex- 
pect her  to  give  up  dancing  because  he  himself  refused  to 

161 


learn;  if  he  wanted  to  see  her,  he  could  wait  and  take  her 
home';  she  would  not  be  later  than  three  or  perhaps  four. 
.  After  two  experiments,  Jack  changed  his  tactics; 
he  could  not  stay  up  all  night,  if  he  had  to  be  in  court  next 
day  at  ten  o'clock,  and  there  was  little  intimacy  or  romance 
in  driving  home  with  a  girl  who  either  dropped  asleep  or 
treated  the  taxi  as  an  omnibus  for  distributing  her  friends 
about  London. 

When  they  met,  her  good-humour  and  friendliness  re- 
assured him,  but  they  met  so  seldom  that  he  made  no 
progress.  Letters  were  unsatisfactory,  for  he  was  afraid 
of  saying  too  much  and  always  wanted  to  write  "without 
prejudice"  at  the  head  of  the  sheet.  She  never  answered 
more  than  one  in  three;  and,  though  he  wrote  about  him- 
self and  his  work,  she  hardly  responded  to  his  suggestion 
that  she  had  a  right  to  know  what  he  was  doing  and  that 
he  had  no  less  a  right  to  expect  her  to  be  interested  in  it. 
This,  he  decided,  was  the  fruit  of  twenty  years'  spoiling; 
the  effort — if  need  be,  the  abasement — must  come  on  his 
side. 

After  a  week  in  which  he  did  not  meet  her  at  all,  Jack 
convinced  himself  that  love  could  not  be  conducted  on  a 
limited  liability  basis;  no  man  achieved  passion  and  saved 
his  face  at  the  same  time.  It  would  have  been  easier  to 
treat  marriage  like  a  casual  invitation  to  dinner  and  to  say 
"Will  you  marry  me?  No?  Well,  it  does  not  matter;  I 
thought  I'd  just  ask  you  .  .  .";  but  a  woman  was  not 
to  be  won  until  she  saw  that  it  mattered  more  than  anything 
else.  After  deep  thought  and  with  momentarily  increasing 
reluctance,  he  went  to  an  address  which  he  had  found  in 
the  Morning  Post,  paid  three  guineas  and  for  a  conscien- 
tious hour  at  a  time  practised  steps  and  pranced  round  a 
studio  off  the  King's  Eoad  with  two  fluffy  sisters  who 
taught  him  a  little  of  dancing  and  much  of  humility.  From 
the  first  they  despised  his  clumsiness  and  resented  hi*  lofty 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  163 

refusal  to  talk,  smoke,  drink  tea  or  take  them  out  to  din- 
ner ;  but  their  dislike  and  contempt  were  nothing  to  his  own 
sense  of  shame.  Once  back  in  the  County  Club,  a  man 
among  men,  deferentially — as  became  a  young  member — 
asking  the  chairman  of  the  Wine  Committee  whether  they 
had  enough  of  the  '84  Dow  to  sell  it  by  the  glass,  he  won- 
dered what  Mr.  Justice  Maitland  or  old  Bertrand  Oakleigh 
would  think  if  they  dreamed  that  he  was  lately  escaped 
from  an  abomination  called  Effie,  who  revolved  in  a  sticky 
fog  of  cheap  chocolates,  and  a  vulgarity  named  Dot,  who 
called  him  "old  boy."  If  Summertown  or  Gerry  Degan- 
way  caught  him  slinking  away  from  chambers  to  be  told 
that  his  knees  were  too  stiff  or  that  he  must  hold  his  part- 
ner more  tightly  .  .  .  Jack  blushed  hotly  and  wondered 
why  he  had  not  been  taught  to  dance  as  a  child. 

And  for  all  his  pains  he  got  little  credit.  At  his  next 
meeting  with  Barbara,  he  chose  one  of  her  favourite 
waltzes  and  suggested  that  she  might  "risk  it"  with  him.  In 
the  infinitely  small  chatter  of  the  tired  woman  round  the 
walls  it  was  remarked  for  a  week  that  Jack  Waring,  who 
did  not  usually  dance,  might  very  often  be  seen  dancing 
with  Babs  Neave.  Val  Arden  accosted  him  with  surprise 
and  congratulated  Barbara  in  his  presence  on  having  hu- 
manized  him. 

"But  /  haven't  done  anything,"  she  answered. 

"You  said  it  was  rather  pointless  for  a  man  to  come  to  a 
ball,  if  he  didn't  dance,"  Jack  pointed  out. 

"And  you  did  this  to  please  me,"  she  laughed.  "How 
long  did  it  take?  Only  a  fortnight?  I  wonder  how  long; 
it  would  take  you  to  learn  bridge.  There's  such  a  mob, 
of  people  everywhere  that  I've  made  it  a  rule  never  ta 
dance  till  after  supper.  George  Oakleigh's  collecting  a 
table  now." 

As  so  often  lately,  this  was  not  the  moment  for  a  man  to 
advance  his  suit,  but  Jack  could  not  deside  whether  Bar-, 


1 64  LADY  LILITH 

bara,  like  all  the  girls  in  these  restless,  neurotic  months, 
was  too  much  excited  to  be  serious  or  whether  she  was  de- 
liberately tantalizing  him  and  deferring  surrender  to  set 
a  higher  value  on  herself.  As  secretly  as  he  had  learned 
dancing,  he  set  himself  to  master  the  leads  and  returns  of 
bridge.  Starting  with  "Auction  for  Beginners,"  he  pro- 
ceeded painfully  to  "Advanced  Auction  Bridge,"  and  chal- 
lenged his  parents  and  sister  to  an  experimental  game  dur- 
ing his  next  week-end  at  Red  Roofs.  The  experiment  was 
not  repeated;  Colonel  Waring,  who  carried  into  bridge 
the  formalism  and  irritability  of  a  whist-racked  youth,  told 
him  that  he  did  not  seem  to  have  a  "card  head,"  and,  after 
a  night  of  helpless  anger  against  the  unreasonableness  of 
women,  Jack  launched  his  ultimatum  to  Barbara  with  an 
indignant  resolve  that  she  should  not  trifle  with  him  any 
longer. 

There  was  little  enough  of  the  love-letter  in  his  few 
words  and  colourless  phrasing,  but  Barbara  felt  a  tremor 
as  she  read  them.  The  letter  awaited  her,  with  others, 
when  she  came  home  after  a  party;  she  read  it  first,  then 
poured  herself  a  cup  of  cocoa,  then  read  the  others  and 
came  back  to  it.  This,  then,  was  his  capitulation  to  a  wo- 
man of  such  ill-repute  that  he  dared  not  confess  to  his 
own  parents  that  he  even  knew  her. 

"My  dear  Jack,"  she  wrote  in  reply.  "Yes,  I  shall  be 
there  on  Friday  and  look  forward  to  seeing  you." 

It  read  naturally,  but  gave  her  hypercritical  mind  the 
sense  that  she  was  meeting  him  half-way;  she  would  not 
let  him  say  that  his  broadest  hint  had  been  a  warning. 

"My  dear  Jack,"  she  tried  again.  "I've  promised  faith- 
fully to  go  to  the  Marlings  on  Friday;  there's  rather  a 
panic  there,  because  poor  dear  Lady  M.  thinks  that  every 
one  will  desert  her  for  Ross  House — it's  her  own  fault  for 
choosing  that  night.  If  I  can  possibly  get  away,  I  shall 
look  in  for  a  few  minuted.  If  not,  we  shall  meet  at  t]ie 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  165 

Abbey  next  day.  Of  course,  we're  expecting  you  then." 
Though  this  read  even  more  naturally,  Barbara  was  not 
wholly  satisfied.  She  left  the  letter  in  the  hall,  then  re- 
trieved and  carried  it  into  her  bedroom  to  see  how  it  looked 
by  morning  light.  As  she  undressed,  she  saw  with  surprise 
that  there  was  an  unaccustomed  flush  on  either  cheek  and 
that  her  lips  were  tightly  compressed.  Jack  had  hurt  her 
even  more  than  she  appreciated;  and  he  was  now  going 
to  be  taught  his  lesson.  The  "haggard  Venus"  .  .  .  The 
sight  of  her  thin  face  and  deep-set,  glowing  eyes  made  her 
feel  a  tragic  actress  in  spite  of  herself.  She  was  word- 
perfect  in  the  scene,  for  she  had  rehearsed  it  every  time 
that  his  bluff,  sweeping  condemnation  had  touched  her 
vanity.  No  doubt  he  would  still  try  to  be  bluff  and  off- 
hand, but  she  was  resolved  to  make  him  plead  humbly  and 
to  take  back  every  reproach,  one  by  one. 

Barbara  sat  down  before  an  open  window  in  her  bed- 
room ;  outside,  the  silent  night  was  like  a  hushed  and  dark- 
ened auditorium  for  her  speech. 

"But  we've  nothing  in  common !  You  know  you  hate  the 
life  I  had.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  alter  it,  Jack.  You'd  take 
away  all  my  friends,  but  they  interest  me;  I've  got  music 
and  books  and  pictures  in  common  with  them.  Even  if 
you  got  over  your  dislike,  you'd  hate  to  sit  in  a  corner 
while  we  talked  about  the  things  that  do  mean  everything 
to  me.  And  I'm  afraid  I  should  always  be  shocking  you. 
I've  told  you  that  I  must  have  every  new  experience;  I'd 
sooner  be  dead  than  live  a  sort  of  half-life,  afraid  to  do 
this,  afraid  to  do  that — just  because  no  one  had  done  it 
before.  I've  got  too  much  vitality  .  .  .  Jack,  you've  seen 
eagles  in  captivity?  Well!  That's  what  would  happen  to 
me  if  I  couldn't  spread  my  wings  and  soar,  soar,  soar  .  .  . 
If  I  married  any  one  who  didn't  soar  with  me.  You 
wouldn't  like  to  hear  people  say,  'She's  grown  so  old  and 
lifeless  since  she  married.' 


166  LADY  LILITH 

"I  can't  make  out  how  you  ever  came  to  fall  in  love 
with  me,  thinking  of  me  as  you  do.  There  are  hundreds  of 
girls  just  as  pretty — much  prettier,  in  fact.  Sally  Farwell. 
Sonia  Dainton.  I'm  vain  and  I'm  not  going  to  pretend 
that  I  don't  think  myself  much  higher  than  them,  but  it's 
the-things  which  put  me  higher  that  you'll  never  appre- 
ciate— never,  never,  never!  You  think  they're  wrong  or 
cheap  or  vulgar  .  .  .  Jack,  you're  in  love  at  present,  you're 
not  seeing  clearly;  but  you  know  in  the  bottom  of  your 
heart  that  you'll  never  change  me.  Well !  Do  you  want  to 
spend  the  rest  of  your  life  with  a  woman  you  despise,  do 
you  want  to  despise  the  mother  of  your  children?  .  .  .. 
Yes,  you  actually  used  the  word — it  hurt  me  so  much  that 
I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it — but,  if  you  like,  I'll  try  to  forget 
it,  I'll  say  I  forget  it  ...  Of  course,  I  forgive!  My  dear, 
this  is  much  too  important  for  us  both  to  have  any  silly 
little  personal  feeling.  .  .  .  And,  whenever  you  say  I'm 
'big,'  I  hope  it  means  that  I've  got  a  big  soul,  that  I'm  gen- 
erous. .  .  .  Dear,  I'm  not  asking  you  to  apologize,  but 
you  admit  you  said  that  I  was  vulgar?  And  now  you  say 
it's  untrue?  Well,  /  haven't  changed?  It's  love.  .  .  .  But 
love  doesn't  last  for  ever.  To  be  happily  married,  you 
want  common  sympathies,  common  tastes — something  that 
will  last  for  ever,  when  love's  burnt  out. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  be — flattered  that  you  think  well 
enough  of  me  to  want  to  marry  me.  .  .  .  Sometimes  you 
were  a  little  hard  on  me.  .  .  .  But  flattery  .  .  .  one's  own 
amour  propre  is  so  small.  ...  I  can't  marry  you,  Jack. 
No!  Nothing  you  could  ever  say  or  do  ...  How  you 
ever  fell  in  love  with  me,  thinking  as  you  do  ...  Or  did, 
rather.  You  don't  think  quite  so  badly  of  me  now.  But 
our  happiness — for  all  our  lives —  No,  please,  Jack;  don't 
say  anything!  You  must  never  speak  of  this  again,  of 
course ;  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  us  not  to  meet.  It's 
bound  to  be  difficult,  you  know  .  .  .  difficult  and  painful. 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  167 

I  don't  mean  that  you're  to  cut  me  in  the  street,  but  if 
we  allowed  ourselves  to  drift  gradually  apart.  .  .  .  And 
now  don't  think  I'm  heartless,  if  I  tell  you  that  you'll  get 
over  this.  Time  heals  all  things,  Jack.  You're  hurt  now; 
it's  as  if  I'd  hit  your  heard  and  the  blood  were  running 
into  your  eyes.  But  in  time.  .  .  .  We'll  say  good-bye  now. 
You  may  kiss  me,  if  you  like,  Jack,  but — I  think  you'd 
better  not.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  forget  all 
about  me." 

As  she  sat  in  a  carved  chair,  whispering  the  words  to 
herself,  the  drama  of  the  scene  swept  Barbara  off  her  bal- 
ance and  left  her  breathless.  The  flush  had  died  out  of  her 
cheeks,  and  all  emotion  was  concentrated  in  the  trembling 
whisper  of  her  voice  and  in  her  eyes,  tragic,  tortured  and 
black,  staring  through  the  window  into  the  silent  audito- 
rium of  the  night. 

And  Jack,  who  called  her  theatrical,  never  admitted  that 
she  could  act  .  .  . 

The  wind  set  her  shivering,  and  she  pulled  the  curtains 
together.  The  rehearsal  had  excited  her,  and,  when  she  got 
into  bed,  there  were  gestures,  which  she  felt  she  could 
improve,  and  phrases,  which  stood  in  need  of  polish.  Jack 
would  not  appreciate  the  subtility  of  the  scene ;  he  would 
go  away — perhaps  not  quite  so  well  satisfied  with  himself, 
but  vaguely  grateful  for  her  gentleness  in  blunting  the  edge 
of  disappointment.  He  would  feel  sure  that  she  had  been 
very  wise,  very  maternal;  and,  if  any  one  questioned  him 
out  of  curiosity  or  a  desire  to  be  sympathetic,  her  bitterest 
critic  would  become  her  staunchest  champion.  "It  was 
rather  a  wipe  in  the  eye  for  me,"  she  could  imagine  his 
saying,  "because  I  was  very  hard  hit;  I  am  still.  After  all, 
there's  no  one  to  compare  with  her.  .  .  .  But  I  thought 
she  behaved  awfully  well;  and  it  couldn't  have  been  easy 
for  her;  I'm  not  really  sure  that  she  didn't  feel  it  more 
than  I  did — I  mean,  she  saw  I  wasn't  enjoying  myself 


1 68  LADY  LILITH 

much  and  she  did  everything  she  could.  ...  I  was  con- 
scious at  the  time  that  I'd  never  loved  her  so  much, 
I'd  never  appreciated  what  I  was  losing  until  I  lost  her. 
Of  course,  I  always  knew  that  she  was  big.  ..." 

Many  men  had  proposed  to  her,  but  none  had  done 
iustice  to  his  opportunity.  She  wondered  how  Jack  would 
begin.  .  .  .  Men  never  troubled  about  a  setting — or  a 
time;  they  procrastinated  and  procrastinated  until  the  car 
was  at  the  door  or  the  train  was  starting.  If  she  were  in 
his  place,  there  would  be  splendour  of  setting'  and  superb 
eloquence  of  rolling,  romantic  phrases.  There  was  colour 
in  the  world  when  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  swung  down  the 
street,  quarrelling  and  making  love,  or  when  he  stood  dy- 
ing and  already  preparing  his  bow  to  the  Court  of  Heaven. 
But  nowadays  all  emotion  was  starved ;  men  were  ashamed 
even  of  emotion's  gestures,  the  bloom  and  the  beauty  of 
language.  Barbara  picked  up  a  volume  of  Shakespeare  and 
read  where  the  book  opened  of  its  own  accord.  "Put  off 
your  maiden  blushes;  avouch  the  thoughts  of  your  heart 
with  the  looks  of  an  empress;  take  me  by  the  hand,  and 
say  'Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine' :  which  word  thou  shall 
no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal,  but  I  will  tell  thee  aloud 
'England  is  thine,  Ireland  is  thine,  France  is  thine,  and 
Henry  Plantagenet  is  thine;  who,  though  I  speak  it  before 
his  face,  if  he  be  no  fellow  with  the  best  king,  thou  shalt 
find  the  best  king  of  good  fellows.'  Come,  your  answer 
in  broken  music.  .  .  .  You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips, 
Kate:  there  is  more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them 
than  in  the  tongues  of  the  French  council." 

Barbara  sat  up  in  bed,  clasping  her  hands  round  her 
knees  and  thinking  of  days  when  colour  still  shone  in  the 
world  and  when  she  made  a  part  of  it.  India  still  lived 
gorgeously.  She  could  still  conjure  up  her  triumphant 
arrival  at  Bombay,  the  roll  of  the  saluting  guns,  the  guard 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  169 

of  honour,  the  lined  streets  and  majestic  progress  of  the 
new  viceroy.  .  .  . 

On  the  evening  of  the  ball  she  was  careful  to  dress  in 
such  fashion  that  she  should  not  seem  to  have  taken  any 
extra  care,  but  her  maid  looked  at  her  with  undisguised 
admiration,  and  at  dinner  Lady  Crawleigh  woke  to  articu- 
late enthusiasm.  Barbara  smiled  to  herself,  as  she  put  on 
her  cloak  and  fastened  a  spray  of  orchids  in  her  dress. 
Every  one  seemed  eager  and  excited :  her  mother  had  more 
than  once  brought  Jack's  name  into  conversation  without 
venturing  farther:  and,  of  course,  all  the  world  loved  a 
lover.  From  Phyllis  Knightrider  she  knew  that  her  aunts 
looked  with  hope  and  relief  on  the  determined,  steady 
young  man  who  had  at  last  been  found  to  keep  her  in  order. 
She  wondered  what  they  would  say  when  he  disappeared 
without  explanation.  .  .  .  She  wondered  how  Jack  would 
begin  and  whether  he  would  come  first  to  Lady  Marling's 
to  make  sure  of  not  missing  her.  Catching  sight  of  her- 
self in  a  mirror,  she  smiled  again,  though  she  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  little  nervous.  She  wondered  how  Jack  had 
been  spending  the  first  part  of  the  evening.  .  .  . 

At  half-past  eleven  he  arrived  to  find  her  surrounded  by 
four  men  of  whom  each  claimed  that  she  had  promised  him 
the  next  dance. 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  were  thinking  of  starting  for  Ross 
House,"  Jack  explained.  "Have  you  got  your  car  here  ?" 

"Mother's  taken  it  on,"  she  answered.  "But  Sir  Deryk 
— you  know  Sir  Deryk  Lancing,  don't  you?  Mr.  Waring — 
Sir  Deryk's  offered  me  his.  We'll  give  you  a  lift." 

Jack  hid  his  disappointment  under  an  adequate  bow  and 
accompanied  her  downstairs.  Young  Lancing's  presence 
disquieted  him.  Though  numberless  men  made  rival  calls 
on  her,  there  had  so  far  been  no  serious  cause  for  jealousy; 
but  Lancing  had  so  much  in  his  favour  that  Jack  felt  an 
insane  desire  to  establish  something  discreditable  against 


i7o  LADY  LILITH 

him.  He  was  young,  healthy,  good-looking  and  highly 
gifted;  Barbara  had  more  than  once  quoted  him  as  an  au- 
thority on  music;  he  was  something  of  an  archaeologist; 
and  his  black-figure  pottery  at  Aston  Ripley  was  no  less 
famous  than  his  collection  of  eighteenth-century  minia- 
tures. He  was  worth  between  twenty  and  twenty-five 
million  pounds,  he  was  a  baronet;  and  he  was  unmarried. 
Their  tastes  harmonized ;  every  one  would  say  that  it  was  a 
most  suitable  alliance.  And  some  would  whisper  that  she  had 
come  very  near  to  throwing  herself  away  on  Jack  Waring. 
People  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  be  so  rich.  .  .  . 

He  strode  bare-headed  on  to  the  pavement,  feeling  help- 
less and  trying  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  only 
nervous.  As  they  drove  to  Ross  House,  he  watched  and 
listened  to  Lancing  and  Barbara,  envying  them  their  ease 
and  wondering  whether  it  was  fair  for  two  people  to  ex- 
clude the  third  from  conversation  by  choosing  an  impos- 
sible subject.  Rimski-Korsakoff  .  .  .  Ivan  le  Terrible  .  .  . 
Chaliapin  .  .  .  While  Barbara  got  rid  of  her  cloak,  he 
consciously  tried  to  make  friends  with  Lancing;  they  had 
apparently  been  at  Eton  together  and  had  overlapped  at 
Oxford.  There  was  no  harm  in  the  fellow ;  though  he  was 
unutterably  bored  and  made  no  attempt  to  hide  it,  he  could 
not  be  dismissed  as  a  conceited  ass  .  .  .  Barbara  took  an 
unconscionable  time  to  shed  one  cloak.  .  .  .  And,  when 
she  returned  to  the  hall,  a  newly  arriving  horde  was  al- 
ready engulfing  her. 

"The  first  one's  mine,  isn't  it  ?"  Jack  called  out  anxiously. 
"You  promised  it  me  in  the  car." 

The  anxiety  was  almost  hysterical,  and  other  people  must 
be  noticing  it. 

"Yes.  And  then  Sir  Deryk,"  answered  Barbara.  "Then 
Jack  Summertown.  Then  Gerry.  George?"  She  gave 
Oakleigh  a  quick  smile  over  an  undulating  sea  of  heads 
and  held  up  four  fingers.  "No,  missing  four!  Jim? 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  17  * 

Missing  five !  What  an  appalling  crowd !  I  don't  see  any 
prospect  of  supper." 

"May  I  have  that  with  you — after  Jim  Loring?"  asked 
Jack.  Then  he  lowered  his  voice.  "I  don't  see  much 
prospect  of  that  talk  with  you." 

The  voice  was  peevish,  and  other  people  must  be  noticing 
that,  too. 

"My  dear,  you'll  have  enough  of  me  this  week-end. 
Take  me  upstairs  before  I'm  trampled  to  death." 

As  they  pressed  forward  to  the  door  of  the  ball-room, 
Jack  gripped  the  banisters  to  make  sure  that  he  was  awake. 
At  one  moment  he  was  staring  at  the  broad  shoulders  of 
the  man  in  front  of  him,  the  next  down  his  collar;  flutter- 
ing hands  tidied  away  vagrant  wisps  of  hair  and  buttoned 
gloves.  Waves  of  scent  met  and  blended  with  the  dominant 
sweetness  of  the  carnations  which  wound  in  clustering 
chains  about  the  banisters.  Above  and  before  them  boomed 
a  far-away  voice,  announcing  names ;  and  between  the  shrill 
clatter  of  surprised  recognitions  came  the  strangulated 
music  of  a  frantic  band. 

"You'll  certainly  be  trampled  to  death,  if  you  try  to  get 
inside,"  said  Jack.  "Let's  sit  it  out  somewhere." 

She  nodded,  but,  when  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the 
Duchess  of  Ross  and  was  trying  to  cleave  a  passage,  Bar- 
bara was  deep  in  conversation  with  a  pale,  underhung 
youth;  and  he  felt  a  second  twinge  of  jealousy.  She  talked 
until  the  music  stopped,  while  Jack  fingered  his  tie  and 
strove  vainly  to  keep  out  of  other  people's  way. 

"You  know  him,  don't  you?"  Barbara  asked,  when  at 
last  the  rapt  conversation  came  to  an  end.  "My  cousin, 
Johnnie  Carstairs.  He's  been  out  in  Rome  for  the  last 
three  years,  but  now  he's  being  transferred  to  the  Foreign 
Office." 

Jack  nodded  without  speaking  and  continued  to  look  for 
standing-room.  After  his  letter  it  was  almost  inconceivable 


1 72  LADY  LILITH 

that  she  should  not  know  what  he  wanted  to  tell  her;  yet 
she  light-heartedly  abandoned  him  for  a  cousin  whom  she 
could  see  at  any  time,  talking  as  though  the  fellow  were  on 
his  way  to  the  scaffold;  and  their  promised  moment  to- 
gether was  relegated  to  the  end  of  the  evening;  and  in  this 
hurly-burly  it  was  almost  too  much  to  expect  that  they 
could  find  an  inch  of  space  or  a  minute  of  uninterrupted 
conversation. 

"I  can  see  one  chair  at  the  far  end,  if  we  can  get  through 
to  it,"  he  said. 

"The  music's  starting,"  she  answered  doubtfully.  "We'd 
better  get  back,  I  think." 

"No,  they're  playing  the  same  thing.  It's  only  an  en- 
core." 

"Oh,  then  do  let  me  have  it  with  Johnnie !  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  such  ages.  You  don't  mind?" 

She  had  spied  a  thinning  in  the  crowd  and  was  half- 
way to  the  ball-room  door  before  he  had  an  answer  ready. 
Noting  the  number  of  the  dance,  Jack  went  downstairs  and 
tried  to  be  philosophical  over  a  cigar;  but  his  nerves  were 
unsteady,  and,  though  there  was  an  endless  hour  and  a  half 
to  wait,  he  had  to  hurry  back  every  few  minutes  to  make 
sure  that  he  was  not  missing  the  promise  of  supper  with 
Barbara.  It  was  irritating  to  be  so  restless — and  doubly 
irritating  to  feel  that  others  were  noticing  it.  Jim  Loring 
came  into  the  smoking-room  and  settled  himself  for  a  com- 
fortable talk,  only  to  find  that  his  companion  had  run  away 
unceremoniously  in  mid-sentence.  These  people  had  no 
sense  of  the  important;  life  to  them  was  powder  and 
patches  and  dance  music — less  than  that,  for  they  stayed 
up  half  the  night  to  smoke  furtive  cigars  and  ostentatiously 
shut  their  ears  to  the  dance  music.  And  Barbara  was 
flitting  from  one  man  to  another,  when  their  two  lives 
were  in  the  balance. 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  173 

In  one  of  his  wanderings  to  and  from  the  ball-room  Jack 
found  Deryk  Lancing,  ticket  in  hand,  by  the  cloak-room. 

"You  off?"  he  asked  with  secret  relief. 

"Yes,  this  sort  of  thing  bores  me  stiff.  Can  I  drop  you 
anywhere  ?" 

"Well,  I'm  booked  for  supper  with  Lady  Barbara." 

"Oh,  you  might  remind  her  that  she  cut  me." 

He  moved  away,  whistling  drearily  to  himself  and  leav- 
ing Jack  grateful  for  his  absence.  There  was  no  rivalry  to 
fear  from  Lancing.  Gerald  Deganway  came  up,  swinging 
his  eye-glass  distractedly  and  calling  for  his  hat. 

"My  dear,  this  sort  of  thing's  killing  me,  positively  kill- 
ing me !"  he  simpered.  "This  is  my  third  ball  to-night,  and 
I've  got  to  go  to  two  more.  The  Marlings,  the  Tavitons, 
this  place,  the  Fenwicks — Oh,  no!  I've  been  to  the  Fen- 
wicks;  I'm  almost  sure  I  started  there.  I  shall  be  such  a 
wreck  to-morrow,  a  mere  bundle  of  nerves!  But  Helen 
Crossleigh  will  never  forgive  me,  if  I  disappoint  her.  You 
don't  look  as  if  you  were  enjoying  yourself  much.  I  be- 
lieve some  one  who  shall  be  nameless  has  cut  you !  I  believe 
that's  it." 

He  laughed  shrilly  and  dug  Jack  roguishly  in  the  ribs 
with  the  gold  knob  of  his  cane;  then  set  a  resplendent  hat 
at  a  jaunty  angle  and  fluttered  through  the  hall,  murmur- 
ing, "Taxi !  Oh,  some  one  must  get  me  a  taxi !  I  shall 
break  down  and  cry,  if  I  don't  get  a  taxi." 

Jack  watched  him  smilingly  but  with  cold  rage  in  his 
heart.  If  he  had  to  wait  hour  after  hour,  fretting  with 
nervousness  and  fuming  with  impatience,  he»might  at  least 
have  been  spared  the  inane  facetiousness  of  Deganway. 

"A  little  more  of  this,  and  something  will  happen  to  my 
brain,"  he  growled  to  Val  Arden. 

"It  is  the  chatter  of  the  Bandar-Log,  aimless,  restless, 
incomplete,"  was  the  answer. 


I74  LADY  LILITH 

'"Here  we  sit  in  a  branchy  row, 
Thinking  of  beautiful  things   we  know; 
Dreaming  of  deeds  that  we  mean  to  do, 
All  complete,  in  a  minute  or  two — 
Something  noble  and  grand  and  good, 
Won  by  merely  wishing  we  could. 

Now  we're  going  to — never  mind, 
Brother,  thy  tail  hangs  down  behind!"' 

Jack  nodded  and  tried  to  smile ;  but  it  was  no  matter  for 
jest  when  he  remembered  that  he  had  himself  chosen  this 
time  and  place  for  asking  Barbara  to  marry  him. 

"One  is  reminded  of  our  good  Lewis  Carroll's  White 
Eabbit,"  Arden  observed,  as  he  watched  Deganway's  flur- 
ried exit.  "You  play  piquet?  No?  One  would  have  chal- 
lenged you  to  a  game.  As  against  bridge,  the  absence  of 
vulgar  abuse  is  noteworthy  and  welcome.  .  .  .  One  likes 
to  see  the  young  people  enjoying  themselves,  but  these  en- 
tertainments are  only  moderately  amusing.  One  looked 
to  Lady  Lilith  in  old  days  to  create  a  diversion,  but  your 
dire  friendship  has  sobered  her.  Of  course,  one  has  one's 
bed.  ..." 

He  sighed  and  tossed  down  the  ticket  for  his  hat.  So 
many  people  were  leaving  that  Jack  looked  apprehensively 
at  his  watch  and  hurried  upstairs.  Only  one  dance  sep- 
arated him  from  supper  with  Barbara ;  but,  when  the  music 
began,  she  had  forgotten  her  promise,  and  he  had  to  stand 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  while  she  waltzed  with  Charles 
Framlingham.  As  he  went  forward  to  claim  her  at  the 
end,  Summertown  advanced  from  another  corner  and  fore- 
stalled him.  There  was  nothing  new  in  such  behaviour, 
and  Jack  realized  that  he  would  only  look  ridiculous,  if  he 
shewed  impatience  or  jealousy;  but  he  felt  that  he  was  los- 
ing his  temper  and  that  she  saw  it.  The  heat  of  the  house 
tired  him,  and  he  was  hungry. 

"Wait  one  more,  Jack,  and  then  you  may  take  me  home," 
she  called  out,  as  she  swept  past  him. 


A  MATTER  OF  PLEASURE  175 

"Aren't  you  going  to  have  any  supper?" 

"Oh,  I'd  quite  forgotten  about  that." 

She  passed  out  of  earshot,  breathlessly  and  with  shining 
eyes.  If  she  remembered  that  he  wanted  to  talk  with  her 
alone,  if  she  guessed  what  he  was  going  to  say,  he  could 
not  understand  her  behaviour;  it  was  very  feminine,  but  it 
was  also  rude  and  extraordinarily  inconsiderate,  exasperat- 
ing him  without  in  any  way  intensifying  his  love;  if  she 
thought  that  he  wanted  simply  to  compete  with  Deganway 
in  vapidness  or  Arden  in  affectation,  well,  she  was  a  fool; 
he  had  given  her  the  broadest  hints.  He  caught  sight  of 
himself  in  a  strip  of  looking-glass  and  found  that  he  was 
frowning;  without  that  signal  he  knew  that  he  had  lost 
his  temper. 

"I  forget  everything,  when  I'm  dancing,"  was  Barbara's 
nearest  approach  to  an  apology  on  her  return.  "I  promised 
to  have  supper  with  this  child,  too ;  let's  all  go  down  to- 
gether." 

She  went  on  ahead  of  them  before  he  could  say  anything ; 
and,  as  Summertown  shewed  no  sign  of  yielding  to  a  prior 
claimant,  Jack  pulled  off  his  gloves  with  careful  delibera- 
tion and  followed  her  into  the  dining-room.  Though  he 
tried  to  overcome  his  ill-humour,  their  minds  were  not  in 
tune  with  his.  Barbara  prattled  unceasingly,  Summertown 
kept  up  a  monologue  of  his  own,  and,  when  they  tried  to 
infect  him  with  their  own  lightness  of  heart,  he  could  only 
nod  or  shake  his  head  or  smile  in  dumb  fury  that  she  could 
play  with  him  in  the  presence  of  a  spectator.  Women,  he 
decided,  must  be  innately  cruel,  for,  though  she  was  clearly 
trying  to  anger  him,  it  was  not  mere  mischievousness. 

"I  must  have  one  more  dance  with  this  child,"  she  cried 
at  the  end  of  supper,  with  a  glance  of  invitation  at  Sum- 
mertown. 

"Then  I  don't  think  I  shall  wait,"  said  Jack. 


I76  LADY  LILITH 

The  tempo  of  her  dialogue  was  retarded  for  half  a  beat 
but  her  expression  was  unchanged. 

"Oh,  but  didn't  you  say  you'd  got  a  message  for  me  or 
something?" 

"I  can  give  it  you  at  the  Abbey  to-morrow." 

She  looked  at  him  with  amused  surprise. 

"Jack,  you're  not  grumpy  with  me  because  I  cut  your 
dance — or,  at  least,  you  say  so?  You  may  have  another, 
and  this  child  can  come  later.  Let's  go  somewhere  where 
it's  cooler  and  where  I  can  have  a  cigarette." 

It  was  a  trifling  encounter,  but,  inasmuch  as  she  saw  that 
he  had  lost  his  temper,  Jack  felt  worsted.  He  swore  that 
he  would  keep  control  of  himself,  however  much  she  exas- 
perated him.  He  was  less  tired  and  more  certain  of  him- 
self than  before  supper,  and  for  some  reason  his  nervous- 
ness had  transferred  itself  to  her.  The  change  was  appar- 
ent from  the  moment  that  they  were  quit  of  Summertown. 
She  became  tense  in  manner  and  a  little  frightened,  no 
longer  laughing ;  and  he  ceased  to  fancy  that  his  hints  could 
have  been  wasted  on  her. 

"Where  are  we  likely  to  be  undisturbed?"  he  asked,  as 
they  hurried  purposefully  up  the  stairs.  "You  know  this 
house  better  than  I  do." 

"Oh — anywhere,"  she  answered  rather  breathlessly. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON 

"The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 
As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 
And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 
Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster.  ... 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 
To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy, 
The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 
The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning.  .  .  . 

'How   he    stands !,'    quoth    the    King.  .  .  . 
'We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 
'In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold.  .  . 
'But  who's  he  would  prove  so  fool-hardy? 
'Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  pardie!' 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested : 
The  dame  'twas,  who  flung  it  and  jested 
With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 
For  months  past ;  he  sat  there  pursuing 
His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 
Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight's  a  tarrier! 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove, — while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 
The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir, — 
Picked  it  up,  and  ..." 

ROBERT  BROWNING:    "THE  GLOVE." 

THOUGH  he  seemed  to  be  leading  the  way,  Barbara  urged 
Jack  by  suggestion  up  a  side-staircase  and  through  a  bil- 
liard-room to  a  broad  loggia  overlooking  Greenhill  Gardens. 
There  were  two  chairs  and  a  table  with  cigarettes  and  cham- 
pagne cup;  the  night  air  blew  chillingly  with  a  scent  of 

177 


i78  LADY  LILITH 

spring  leaves,  and  the  music  reached  them  as  a  reverbera- 
tion mingling  with  the  distant  traffic  of  Piccadilly. 
•;      "I  say,  you  won't  catch  cold,  will  you  ?"  Jack  asked. 

Barbara  smiled  to  herself.  He  would  never  have  thought 
of  the  wind  or  of  her,  if  his  match  had  not  been  blown  out. 

"Oh,  we  shan't  be  here  long  enough  for  that." 

Jack  lighted  the  cigarettes  and  settled  himself  elab- 
orately in  his  chair,  with  one  leg  thrown  over  the  other. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  I  think  you  know  what  it's 
about." 

She  had  intended  to  be  thrown  off  her  balance  with  sur- 
prise, but  the  bluntness  of  his  opening  did  not  invite  ingen- 
uousness. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  in  disgrace,"  she  answered  meekly. 
"You — rather  frighten  me,  when  you're  so  mysterious. 
You're  not  going  to  say  anything  unpleasant  ?" 

"I  hope  you  won't  find  it  unpleasant.  Look  here,  the  best 
thing  will  be  for  me  to  say  what  I've  got  to  say,  .  .  .  and 
then  you  ...  I  mean,  if  you  interrupt,  you'll  throw  me 
out  of  my  stride.  Barbara,  I've  told  you  what  I'm  earning; 
and  one  naturally  hopes  that  it  will  increase  almost  auto- 
matically year  by  year.  As  you  know,  I'm  not  a 
Catholic " 

"Jack " 

He  flapped  one  hand  at  her  with  nervous  impatience, 
drew  furiously  at  his  cigarette  and  looked  away  over  the 
garden  and  house-tops  to  the  shadowy  Park. 

"You  mustn't  put  me  off  my  stroke,  Barbara.  .  .  .  These 
are  the  two  big  obstacles  that  all  the  world  will  see.  Well, 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  shouldn't  be  talking  to  you  like  this, 
if  you  hadn't — in  a  way — given  me  the  right  to.  ...  At 
first  I  couldn't  stand  you  at  any  price  whatsoever.  Then 
there  was  a  night  when  I  said  to  myself  that  I  should  have 
to  be  careful.  It  was  when  you  rang  me  up  and  invited  me 
to  dine  with  you  alone — after  that  business  in  Webster's 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON       179 

rooms.  At  first  I  was  perfectly  furious ;  you  seemed  to  be 
taking  that  luckless  girl's  death  so  calmly  and  thinking  only 
of  the  hole  you  were  in.  And  then — I  don't  know;  some- 
thing changed.  I  began  to  feel  sorry  for  you,  I  felt  extraor- 
dinarily fond  of  you ;  I  told  myself  that  I  should  have  to 
watch  out.  Then — something  you  said — it  was  when  you 
invited  me  to  one  of  your  own  special  parties  at  the  Abbey ; 
I  got  the  feeling  that  you  liked  me,  rather.  Was  I  right?" 

The  question  came  so  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  his  halt- 
ing narrative  that  Barbara  started.  So  far  the  scene  was 
not  developing  at  all  as  she  had  expected.  She  could  inter- 
rupt, confuse,  stop  him ;  but  there  was  no  way  of  bringing 
in  the  open-eyed  amazement  which  she  had  planned ;  he 
seemed  to  be  putting  the  responsibility  on  her.  And,  when 
he  brusquely  told  her  not  to  interrupt,  she  felt  strangely 
disposed  to  obey  him. 

"Was  I  right  ?"  he  repeated,  turning  to  look  at  her. 

The  customary  self-satisfied  smile  had  disappeared,  and 
he  was  frowning.  Barbara  chose  to  fancy  that  he  must 
take  on  the  same  expression  with  a  fighting  case  in  court. 

"Yes,  I  quite  liked  you,"  she  answered.  "I  always  liked 
you,  when  you're  not  trying  to  shew  me  that  everything  I 
say  and  do " 

He  cut  her  short  with  a  quick  uplift  of  one  finger. 

"Good !  Well,  when  you  shewed  me  that,  I  took  stock 
and  began  to  look  at  things  from  another  point  of  view.  I 
suggested  to  you — as  fairly  and  fully  as  I  could — the  chief 
obstacles ;  money  .  .  .  and  so  forth.  If  you — or  your  peo- 
ple, through  you— had  thought  that  insuperable,  then  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  I  felt  I  must  give  you  the 
opportunity  of  entering  a  caveat.  I  need  hardly  say  that, 
knowing  you  as  I  did  ...  I  mean,  if  you  wanted  to  marry 
a  man,  you  wouldn't  mind  if  he  were  a  beggar.  Would 
you?" 

The  new  question  again  startled  her  by  its  abruptness. 


!8o  LADY  LILITH 

She  had  a  misgiving  that  he  was  pressing  her  into  a  corner. 

"Would  you  ?"  he  repeated ;  and  she  half  expected  to  hear 
him  browbeating  her.  "It's  a  simple  question  .  .  .  Yes  or 
no  ...  I  want  you  to  tell  the  jury  ...  Remember  you  are 
on  your  oath.  Come  now  .  .  .  yes  or  no  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not.    But,  Jack " 

He  stopped  her  with  another  jerk,  as  she  had  foreseen. 

"I  knew  that.  The  next  thing  was — I  suppose  'suit- 
ability' is  the  best  word.  I  mean,  we  lead  different  lives, 
our  outlook's  different  in  some  ways.  I  had  to  consider 
what  chance  of  success  we  should  have  together.  Well,  you 
sometimes  say  that  I  find  fault  with  everything  you  do ;  I 
think  you  see  now  that  I've  never  said  a  word  that  your 
father  hasn't  said  to  you  a  hundred  times.  It's  what  every- 
body was  saying,  and  I  think  everybody's  glad  to  see  that 
you've  come  round  to  their  point  of  view.  We  all  felt  that 
you  were  too  big,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

He  hesitated  and  looked  away,  frowning  again  as  he 
tried  to  remember  the  sequence  of  his  argument.  Barbara 
shivered  instinctively  at  his  hackneyed,  hated  phrase,  but 
she  was  struck  silent  by  the  sheer  audacity  of  his  patroniz- 
ing assumptions. 

"Jack "  she  began,  but  he  again  held  up  his  hand. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  your 
father,"  he  resumed.  "It  seemed  rather  getting  hold  of 
the  wrong  end  of  the  stick  to  talk  to  a  woman's  father 
before  you've  talked  to  the  woman  herself.  Of  course,  one 
naturally  goes  to  him  for  his  assent.  I  happen  to  know  that 
your  people,  like  you,  saw  what  was  in  the  wind,  and,  as 
they  were  good  enough  not  to  pitch  me  into  the  street  .  .  ." 

"Jack!    Please!" 

Barbara  leaned  to  him  with  her  hands  appealingly  out- 
stretched. In  a  little  while  he  would  rob  her  of  her  last  cue. 
By  no  abuse  of  language  could  such  pleading  be  associated 
with  passion,  but  he  was  quoting  her  against  herself  until 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON     181 

it  seemed  as  if  she  had  almost  begged  him  to  marry  her. 

"I've  nearly  done,"  he  said,  smiling  for  the  first  time; 
then  he  paused  to  collect  himself  for  a  concise  summary, 
and  she  could  have  laughed  hysterically  at  the  spectacle  of 
a  plodding  young  barrister  trying  to  argue  her  into  mar- 
riage. His  voice  had  never  changed  in  timbre;  and,  if  he 
had  occasionally  hesitated  over  a  word,  he  had  never  lost 
the  train  of  thought.  His  chair  was  as  discreetly  remote  as 
when  he  first  sat  down,  one  leg  thrown  comfortably  over 
the  other ;  and  he  had  not  thought  fit  to  use  one  whisper  of 
endearment. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more !" 

"You  must." 

"But,  Jack,  you're  not  in  love  with  me !" 

He  laughed  good-naturedly,  as  though  he  were  humour- 
ing a  child. 

"I  expect  I'm  the  best  judge  of  that.  Well,  you  admit 
that  I'm  not  wholly  repellent  to  you ;  the  difference  in  reli- 
gion can  be  accommodated;  I'm  not  altogether  penniless. 
I  want  you  to  marry  me,  Babs." 

"I  can't." 

She  flung  out  the  words  as  soon  as  he  gave  her  a  chance 
of  speaking.  With  his  dogged,  relentless  attack,  it  was  sur- 
prising that  he  left  her  an  opportunity  of  answering;  she 
would  hardly  have  been  astonished  if  he  had  taken  her 
firmly  by  the  arm  and  led  her  home  to  announce  their  en- 
gagement. 

"That  means  you  don't  care  for  me  ?" 

There  was  no  sign  of  perturbation;  but  he  was  watching 
her  closely.  One  careless  word  would  enable  him  to  dem- 
onstrate that  she  had  coquetted  with  him  for  her  vanity's 
sake ;  his  memory  was  relentless,  and  she  could  not  pretend 
to  convince  herself  that  she  had  behaved  merely  as  if  she 
"quite  liked"  him,  when  a  hundred  people  were  gossiping 
about  them  .  .  .  And  he  had  a  passion  for  demonstrating 


1 82  LADY  LILITH 

things ;  he  seemed  to  be  addressing  an  invisible  jury  beyond 
the  pillars  of  the  loggia,. 

"My  dear  Jack,  how  could  you  ever  dream  of  marrying 
me— thinking  of  me,  as  you  do?"  she  demanded  with  a 
breathless  attempt  to  start  her  speech  and  to  overwhelm 
his  massive  arguments  with  rhetoric  and  drama. 

"Let's  stick  to  facts.    I  do  dream  of  it.    I  want  to." 

"But  you  disapprove  of  everything  I  do,  you  think  I'm 
vulgar,  cheap.  Oh,  you've  said  it,  Jack;  you've  used  those 
•words.  They  hurt  much  too  much  for  me  to  forget  them 
easily." 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  hurt  you,"  he  interrupted.  "But  I 
think  you  have  come  round  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"I'll  forget  them — I'll  try  to,"  she  went  on,  gabbling  her 
speech  murderously.  "This  is  much  too  important  for  us 
to  think  about  our  own  wretched  little  amour  propre;  and, 
when  you  say  I'm  "big,"  I  always  hope  it  means  that  I'm 
generous,  forgiving.  But,  Jack,  you  despise  me — or  you 
did — the  woman  that  you  want  to  be  the  mother  of  your 
children " 

"You  have  changed.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't  want  to  marry 
you." 

Barbara  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  loggia  and  stood  with 
her  hands  on  the  stone  parapet,  looking  down  on  to  the 
shadowy  foliage  of  the  gardens.  She  could  no  longer  force 
into  service  the  speech  that  she  had  rehearsed  and  at  any 
moment  she  might  expect  to  hear  him  say — in  his  horrible 
jury  voice — "Then  am  I  to  understand  that  you  never  meant 
anything  seriously,  that  this  was  all  an  elaborate  trick? 
Was  that  your  means  of  vindicating  yourself?  And  do  you 
feel  that  it  has  been  successful  ?"  He  shewed  a  disconcert- 
ing mastery  and  a  no  less  disconcerting  restraint;  she  was 
not  allowed  to  interrupt,  and,  when  he  had  posed  a  ques- 
tion, he  held  her  to  it,  waiting  silently  for  an  answer  and 
blocking  the  loop-holes  of  irrelevancy. 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON      183 

"Why  do  you  say  you  can't  marry  me  ?" 

She  turned  to  find  that  he  was  still  by  the  table;  he  had 
risen  as  she  rose,  but  without  following  her,  without  dis- 
turbing his  deadly,  businesslike  composure. 

"We  should  be  miserable." 

"D'you  mean  I'm  wrong?    Don't  you  care  for  me?" 

"'Care??  I'm  thinking  about  love!  You  don't  know 
what  love  is!  All  the  time  you've  been  talking  ...  So  cold 
and  collected  ...  If  you  were  in  love  with  me,  you'd  want 
to  take  me  in  your  arms,  you'd  be  transfigured,  there'd  be 
radiance,  glory  in  your  eyes,  you'd  hold  me  as  if  you  never 
meant  to  let  me  go!  ...  You — you  talked  like  a  leading 
article ;  you  never  even  said  you  loved  me." 

"I  thought  we  might  take  that  as  read." 

"But  look  at  you  now !  If  you  loved  me,  you  wouldn't 
want  to  keep  away ;  you  wouldn't  be  able  to." 

"I've  got  a  certain  amount  of  self-control." 

"To  resist  something  that's  not  a  temptation  ?" 

She  came  slowly  back  to  him  and  stood  gazing  up  into 
his  face.  As  on  the  night  when  she  had  darted  from  him  at 
the  Croxton  Ball,  her  cheeks  were  white  and  hollow,  her 
eyes  were  nearly  black;  it  was  the  morbid,  feverish  beauty 
of  a  consumptive  kept  alive  by  force  of  will.  The  spray 
of  orchids  rose  and  fell  with  her  breathing,  and  he  could 
have  caught  and  encircled  her  slender,  boyish  figure  with 
one  arm. 

"You're  looking  divine  to-night,"  he  murmured. 

"Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  ?" 

"No !  I'm  responsible  for  you  at  this  moment.  And,  if 
I  were  you,  I  should  think  twice  before  you  blaspheme 
against  the  Holy  Ghost  again.  You  don't  doubt  that  I  love 
you." 

Barbara  pressed  her  hands  against  her  cheeks,  throwing 
her  head  back  and  closing  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  whispered.     "I  was  trying  to,  try- 


1 84  LADY  LILITH 

ing  to  make  you  doubt  it  so  that  you  wouldn't  mind  so  much. 
If  I  could  have  made  you  think  that  we  were  just  friends. 

.  .  Jack,  you  must — before  it's  too  late.  You've  made 
a  mistake, . you're  exaggerating  everything!  Just  because 
you've  hardly  met  a  girl  before,  you  think  you're  in  love 
with  me.  Because  I'm  pretty,  because  I  amuse  you  .  .  . 
I'll  be  ever  so  humble!  I'm  nothing — nothing  but  a  great 
friend.  If  you  go  away,  you'll  see  it  like  that;  when  you 
come  back,  we  shall  still  be  friends,  but  you'll  wonder  how 
you  ever  imagined  you  were  in  love  with  me.  You're  not, 
Jack !  You  must  tell  yourself  you're  not." 

"I  don't  understand,  Barbara." 

"I'm  trying  to  help  you.  I  can  never  marry  you ;  and  I 
want  you  td  see  that  you're  not  losing  anything.  You  don't 
really  want  me.  Oh,  you  don't,  Jack !" 

"Why  do  you  say  you  can  never  marry  me?  Don't  you 
love  me?" 

Barbara  had  expected  the  question  for  so  long  that  it  had 
lost  half  its  force  before  reaching  her.  -Her  mind  moved 
quickly,  as  it  had  done  all  the  evening,  and  she  could  antici- 
pate Jack's  slow  change  of  expression,  his  dawning  realiza- 
tion and  then  her  punishment.  There  was  no  give-and-take, 
when  he  lectured  or  attacked;  no  neatness  of  phrase,  no 
delicacy  of  sarcasm  or  irony,  no  intellectual  joy  of  battle. 
He  dealt  the  bludgeon  blows  of  one  who  seemed  to  boast 
that  he  was  not  clever  but  tried  to  be  honest.  She  felt  sud- 
denly frightened  for  her  pride  and  for  herself;  and  she 
knew  that  he  would  beat  her  as  conscientiously  as  he  had 
tried  to  win  her. 

"Love  isn't  everything,"  she  answered. 

"I'm  waiting  to  be  told  what  the  obstacle  is." 

In  another  moment  he  would  have  summarized  for  the 
third  time  all  possible  objections  to  the  marriage  and  his 
own  complacent  disposal  of  them.  She  could  not  bear  that 
again. 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON      185 

"Jack,  you're  not  a  Catholic,"  she  cried. 

"I  know.  I  told  you  that  from  the  first.  But  we  can 
arrange  that ;  I'll  do  whatever  is  necessary.  It's  a  nuisance, 
because  I  expect  your  people  loathe  the  idea  of  your  marry- 
ing a  heretic  as  much  as  mine  loathe  the  idea  of  my  marry- 
ing a  Catholic.  Fortunately,  we  can  ignore  them." 

"I  could  never  marry  a  man  who  wasn't  a  Catholic." 

She  clutched  wildly  at  the  promise  of  escape,  and  Jack 
betrayed  emotion  for  the  first  time  in  a  gape  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"But  your  own  church — if  you  still  call  yourself  a  Cath- 
olic— doesn't  go  as  far  as  that." 

"I  don't  care.  It  should.  It's  lying  to  your  soul,  if  you 
believe  one  thing  and  let  children  believe  something  else 
that  you  know  to  be  false.  There's  no  sympathy  of  spirit 
when  each  thinks  the  other  wrong  and  sneers  privately.  .  .  . 
I  can't  talk  about  this,  but  you  see  now  why  I  tried  to  stop 
you.  .  .  .  Jack,  do  take  me  home!  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't 
stand  any  more !" 

She  turned  convulsively  and  hurried  back  to  the  parapet 
of  the  loggia.  Jack  picked  up  a  cigarette,  which  he  re- 
garded absently,  frowning  again. 

"You  could  never  marry  a  man  who  wasn't  a  Catholic?" 
he  repeated. 

"No.  Jack,  don't  let's  talk  about  this  any  more !  If  I'm 
to  blame  for  making  you  unhappy  .  .  .  Oh,  try  to  forgive 

me !  If  you  let  me  think  I'd  spoiled  your  life Please 

take  me  home." 

He  roused  himself  from  contemplation  of  the  gilt  name 
and  address  on  the  cigarette  and  walked  with  her  into  the 
house. 

"Is  your  car  coming  back  for  you?"  he  asked  with  a 
detachment  that  she  admired. 

"Yes.    You  can  take  it  on,  if  you  like.    Or  perhaps  you'd 


ZS6  LADY  LILITH 

rather  not  come  with  me.  ...  I  suppose  you  won't  be  com- 
ing to  the  Abbey  to-morrow  ?" 

"I  intended  to." 

"Jack,  it  can't  do  any  good !" 

"Do  you  withdraw  the  invitation?" 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't  come.  Later  on  we  may  be  able 
to  meet.  .  .  .  You  won't  believe  me  now,  but  time  is  a 
wonderful  healer " 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh  of  grating  boisterous- 
ness. 

"Is  there  anything  to  heal  ?" 

It  was  after  four  o'clock  when  Barbara  returned  home 
alone  from  Ross  House;  but,  though  she  went  quietly  to 
bed,  Lady  Crawleigh  interrupted  her  undressing.  The  Duch- 
ess of  Ross  was  the  latest  busybody  to  wonder  audibly 
whether  young  Waring  was  serious,  and  it  was  high  time 
for  the  girl  to  know  that  people  were  talking  about  her. 

"There  was  such  a  mob  that,  when  Jack  and  I  had  got 
away  from  it,  we  didn't  go  back,"  sighed  Barbara  wearily, 
to  explain  her  lateness.  "I  wish  Eleanor  Ross  didn't  know 
quite  so  many  people.  Oh,  mother,  Jack  can't  come  to  the 
Abbey  this  week-end.  He's  writing  to  you,  but  he  asked  me 
to  give  you  that  message." 

Lady  Crawleigh  picked  up  a  pendant,  head-band  and 
bracelet  of  fire-opals  from  their  scattered  hiding-places  on 
the  floor,  trying  not  to  seem  either  too  much  surprised  or 
too  indifferent.  Then  she  knelt,  with  a  cracking  of  knee- 
joints,  to  search  for  the  missing  half  of  a  pair  of  ear-rings. 
Barbara,  she  reflected,  had  evidently  done  one  thing — or 
perhaps  the  other — or  even  neither;  mercifully  she  could 
not  do  both. 

"He's  really  no  business  to  chop  and  change  like  that  at 
the  last  moment,"  she  complained.  "What's  happened?" 

"He's  kept  in  London,"  Barbara  answered.  "Don't  bother 
to  look  for  those  things,  mother;  Merton  will  be  so  disap- 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON     187 

pointed,  if  there's  nothing  for  her  to  tidy.  She  always 
waits  till  I'm  fast  asleep,  really  tired,  and  then  throws  tepid 
tea  at  me  with  one  hand  and  knocks  over  all  the  furniture 
with  the  other.  ...  I  can  hardly  keep  my  eyes  open.  You'll 
let  me  go  to  sleep,  won't  you  ?" 

Lady  Crawleigh  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  came  to  the 
side  of  the  bed,  an  undignified,  shrunken  figure  in  a  blue 
peignoir  and  satin  slippers,  with  grey-black  hair  secured  in 
thick  short  plaits. 

"My  child,  is  anything  the  matter?" 

Barbara  was  lying  with  one  bare  arm  over  her  eyes,  as 
though  the  light  hurt  her.  She  had  not  waited  to  brush 
her  hair,  and  the  room  was  littered  with  furiously  scattered 
clothes. 

"I'm  only  tired,"  she  said.  "I've  never  known  anything 
so  hot  as  that  place." 

"Well,  go  to  sleep."  Lady  Crawleigh  shewed  no  sign  of 
leaving  the  bedside.  "On  the  whole  perhaps  it's  just  as 
well  that  he  isn't  coming  to  the  Abbey.  Some  one  was  say- 
ing to-night " 

"Mother,  I'm  not  going  to  marry  Jack !" 

Lady  Crawleigh's  eyes  opened  with  innocent  sur- 
prise. 

"My  darling,  who  ever  said  anything  about  it  ?" 

Barbara  laughed  hardly. 

"You  were  going  to,  weren't  you?  I  thought  I'd  save 
time.  Jack  .  .  .  I've  had  a — remarkable  evening,  but  I 
don't  think  I  want  to  talk  about  it." 

Lady  Crawleigh  changed  the  lights,  but  she  continued  to 
hover  between  the  bed  and  the  door,  picking  up  a  glove  here 
and  a  stocking  there,  glancing  stealthily  at  Barbara  and 
flogging  her  imagination  to  guess  what  had  taken  place.  The 
girl  was  a  little  exacting  with  men,  and  there  might  have 
been  a  quarrel ;  but  it  was  rather  drastic  for  Jack  to  default 
from  the  Abbey  at  the  last  moment.  He  had  possibly  re- 


1 88  LADY  LILITH 

ceived  an  unexpected  rebuff ;  but  then  the  rebuff  was  unex- 
pected by  every  one,  for  Barbara  had  shewn  him  all  the  en- 
couragement that  a  woman  could  give.  Possibly  she  had 
encouraged  him  too  much  and  received  a  rebuff  herself.  .  .  . 

"Darling " 

"I'm  so  tired,  mother." 

She  seemed  without  resistance  or  power  to  assert  her- 
self, as  though  she  had  been  bullied  and  beaten.  Lady 
Crawleigh  felt  a  need  to  protect  her,  as  she  had  not  felt  it 
for  ten  years ;  Barbara  was  usually  stoical  with  bodily  pains, 
and  a  wound  to  her  pride  or  an  ache  at  her  heart  was  shared 
with  no  one. 

"Yes,  darling,  I  won't  keep  you  awake,  but  has  there  been 
any  unpleasantness?  I  mean,  I  have  to  think  about  the 
future — about  inviting  him  here." 

"Oh,  there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  invite  him.  He 
can  please  himself  whether  he  comes  or  not." 

Lady  Crawleigh  hesitated  a  moment  longer,  then  tip-toed 
to  the  door  and  turned  off  the  lights.  Nothing  was  to  be 
learned  from  Barbara  at  present. 

No  elucidation  came  from  the  letter  of  apology  which 
she  received  from  Jack  next  day.  He  was  unexpectedly 
detained  in  London,  but  hoped  that  he  might  be  forgiven 
and  invited  again  some  time  later  in  the  summer.  It  was  a 
question  of  private  business,  which  would  keep  him  very 
fully  occupied  for  some  weeks.  He  would  have  given  longer 
warning,  if  possible,  but  the  business  had  only  come  to  him 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  as  it  were.  .  .  .  Lady  Crawleigh 
tore  up  the  letter  impatiently,  then  pieced  it  together  and 
read  it  with  perplexed  attention.  If  there  had  been  no  quar- 
rel, no  rebuff,  no  unpleasantness,  he  would  not  underline  this 
private  business  and  hint  that  he  did  not  want  to  be  invited  to 
the  house  for  the  present;  if  there  had  been  a  quarrel,  it 
was  incomprehensible  that  he  should  ask  to  be  given  another 
chance  later  in  the  summer. 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON      189 

But  for  the  phrase,  "I've  had  a  remarkable  evening,  but 
I  don't  think  I  want  to  talk  about  it,"  Barbara  might  simply 
be  tired.  Certainly,  she  was  in  excellent  spirits  next  day, 
and  the  whole  party  at  the  Abbey  revolved  round  her  and 
shone  with  her  radiance.  On  their  return  to  London  she 
threw  herself  as  insatiably  as  ever  into  all  that  was  going 
on.  The  only  difference  now  was  that  she  never  danced 
with  Jack,  because  he  had  disappeared ;  and  she  never  men- 
tioned his  name.  Others  also  remarked  his  disappearance, 
and,  though  the  excuse  of  private  business  was  bravely  pre- 
sented, they  at  least  were  not  satisfied.  Lady  Crawleigh 
suggested  inviting  him  to  a  musical  party,  from  which  it 
might  have  been  noticeable  to  exclude  him;  Barbara  raised 
no  objection,  but  Jack  replied  from  his  chambers  that  he 
was  unfortunately  compelled  to  refuse  all  invitations  at 
present. 

It  was  mysterious  and  annoying,  for  an  absurd  amount 
of  gossip  was  swirling  and  eddying  among  the  weary,  chilled 
women  who  sat  night  after  night  round  ball-room  walls. 
Deganway  professed  to  have  seen  an  impertinent  paragraph 
in  the  column  of  The  Sphinx  headed  "Riddles  for  Our 
Readers" ;  and,  for  every  one  who  enquired  what  had  hap- 
pened to  Jack,  Lady  Crawleigh  knew  that  a  dozen  must  be 
asking  themselves  why  Barbara  had  made  so  public  an  ex- 
hibition of  herself,  if  she  did  not  mean  to  let  anything  come 
of  it.  And  there  was  an  added  mystery  and  vexation  when 
Jim  Loring  said :  "I've  the  best  reason  for  knowing  there's 
nothing  to  worry  about,"  in  a  tone  which  shewed  that  he 
was  himself  deeply  worried. 

He  met  his  aunt  on  the  morrow  of  a  confession  which 
lasted  from  ten  o'clock  until  two  next  morning.  Jack  had 
invited  himself  to  dinner  at  Loring  House,  stipulated  that 
no  one  else  should  be  present  and  pledged  his  host  to 
secrecy. 

"I  can't  quite  trust  my  own  judgement,"  he  drawled,  when 


190  LADY  LILITH 

they  were  alone  after  dinner.  "A  new  factor,  you  know 
...  I  haven't  quite  adjusted  myself  to  it  ...  I  don't 
suppose  it's  any  news  to  you  that  I  want  to  marry  your 
cousin  Barbara?  Well,  I've  every  reason  to  think  she 
would  marry  me  to-morrow  but  for  the  unfortunate  circum- 
stance that  she's  a  Catholic  and  I'm  not." 

Loring  involuntarily  winced  and  looked  away,  recalling 
his  own  shipwreck  on  a  similar  rock,  the  months  of  dull 
agony  and  the  empty  years  of  wandering,  which  had  but 
lately  come  to  an  end.  It  was  the  first  time  that  they  had 
met  alone,  and  Jim  was  more  than  three  years  older;  new 
lines  were  visible  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  his  face  and 
body  were  heavier  and  more  inelastic.  A  note  of  bitterness 
broke  over-often  through  the  habitual  irony  of  his  voice, 
as  though  his  spirit  were  still  raw  under  its  dressing  of 
tolerant  boredom. 

"If  any  one  knows  anything  on  that  subject,"  he  mur- 
mured, "you've  come  to  the  right  man.  Have  you — actually 
put  it  to  her?" 

"Oh,  yes.  We're  hung  up  on  that.  Barbara  says  that 
she  could  never  marry  a  man  who  wasn't  a  Catholic." 

"But  that's  absurd !    The  Church  itself " 

"So  I  told  her,  but  she  goes  one  better  than  her  Church. 
Jim,  I  feel  that  there's  the  makings  of  a  first-class  tragedy, 
if  we're  not  very  careful  .  .  .  and  very  clever.  I  want  to 
marry  her  more  than  anything  in  the  world.  There's  noth- 
ing— I  think  there's  literally  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  bring 
it  off.  She — well,  we  went  into  it  pretty  thoroughly  the 
other  night.  I  could  see  she  was  torn  in  two  .  .  .  I — didn't 
press  it.  I  knew  that,  if  she  felt  as  strongly  as  that — in  her 
bones — ,  I  shouldn't  sweep  her  off  her  feet,  however  much 
she  seemed  to  be  convinced  at  the  moment.  It  didn't  look 
like  being  permanent.  I  had  to  find  some  other  way  out." 

He  paused  and  relit  his  cigar.  The  door  was  ajar,  and 
Loring  got  up  to  close  it;  then,  instead  of  going  back' to  his 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON      191 

chair,  he  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  library,  with  his  chin 
on  his  chest  and  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets. 
Three  years  ago  he  had  come  back  to  that  room  from  his 
last  farewell  with  Sonia  Dainton;  he  has  distractedly  sum- 
moned George  Oakleigh  to  advise  him  and  had  paced  up 
and  down,  up  and  down,  flinging  half-smoked  cigarettes  into 
the  fire-place.  And  Oakleigh,  whom  he  had  invoked  for 
help,  would  only  tell  him  brutally  that  love  was  over  and 
that  he  must  set  his  teeth  and  face  it.  ...  Now  again  no 
other  advice  was  .possible. 

"I'm  dam'  sorry,  Jack,"  he  muttered. 

His  voice  quavered  in  sympathy,  because  their  tragedies 
had  so  much  in  common.  He  had  never  lost  his  heart  to 
any  one  but  Sonia,  as  Jack  had  lost  his  only  to  Babs  Neave ; 
they  had  been  immune  for  the  first  thirty  years  of  their  life, 
and  they  were  paying  for  their  self-denial  and  their  affront- 
ing indifference  to  woman.  Jack  probably  enjoyed  expos- 
ing his  soul  as  little  as  he  had  done  with  George. 

"It's  rather  a  mess,  isn't  it?"  said  Jack. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Look  here,  we're  old  enough 
friends  for  me  to  talk  freely  to  you.  It  hurts  like  hell  at 
the  time,  but  one  does  get  over  it.  As  you  know,  I  went 
abroad  for  some  years  and  tried  to  forget.  I  should  be — 
embarrassed,  if  I  sat  next  to  Sonia  at  dinner  to-night,  but  I 
shouldn't  get  the  same  tug  at  the  heart  that  I  got  when  I 
just  saw  her  for  a  moment  in  the  distance — at  the  Corona- 
tion. You'd  better  go  away." 

Jack  smiled  and  then  turned  his  head,  finally  resting  his 
chin  on  one  fist  and  staring  at  the  empty  fire-place  so  that 
his  face  should  be  hidden. 

"I'm  not  going  away,"  he  answered.  "I've  every  inten- 
tion of  marrying  Barbara.  I  feel  that  we  were  made  for 
each  other." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  Loring  repeated,  as  he 
paused  again. 


19z  LADY  LILITH 

"I  propose  to  become  a  Catholic." 

Loring  started  and  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  a  chair  with- 
out speaking.  Jack's  natural  stolidity  was  a  guarantee 
against  melodrama. 

"You  can't  do  that,  Jack,"  he  said  at  length. 

"We  know  several  people  who  have." 

"I  won't  criticize  them,  because  they  may  already  have 
been  Catholics  in  everything  but  name.  They're  entitled  to 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  But  you  and  I  have  talked  religion 
a  hundred  times.  It  wouldn't  be  straight  dealing." 

"Then  I'm  glad  I've  not  talked  religion  with  any  one  else. 
There'll  be  no  one  else  to  give  me  away.  I'm,  entitled  to  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt." 

"No  one  would  believe  you ;  Barbara  certainly  wouldn't ; 
and  you'd  never  be  able  to  impose  on  yourself.  You'd  al- 
ways feel  dishonoured,  Jack." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  in  which  Loring  was  visibly  the 
more  embarrassed.  Jack  smoked  his  cigar  tranquilly, 
looking  ahead  of  him  at  the  fire-place  and  not  striving  to 
pose  either  as  hero  or  as  cynic. 

"My  dear  Jim,"  he  answered  at  length,  "if  this  were  an 
easy  question,  where  I  could  trust  my  own  judgement,  I 
wouldn't  inflict  my  troubles  on  you  like  this.  I  won't  pre- 
tend I  like  it.  If  you  could  suggest  a  better  way  .  .  .  Now, 
when  once  the  thing's  done,  there's  no  discussion;  I  don't 
question  Barbara's  bona  fides  and  I  won't  let  her  question 
mine.  Any  children  will  be  full-blooded  Catholics,  and  the 
question  will  never  be  raised  again.  I've  completed  a  for- 
.mality;  she  will  in  fact  marry  a  Catholic,  which  is  what 
•she's  sticking  out  for,  and  I'll  see  to  it  that  no  shadow  of 
•difference  ever  arises  from  religion.  It's  not  easy,  God 
3knows.  Incidentally,  the  entire  world  will  say  I'm  marry- 
ring  her  for  her  money  and  getting  converted  so  that  she 
.-shan't  forfeit  it.  Always  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear.  .  .  . 
However,  necessity  knows  no  law." 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON       193 

"That's  tied  round  the  neck  of  every  crime  and  immoral- 
ity in  the  world's  history." 

Jack  looked  up  with  the  first  sign  of  interest  that  his 
face  had  shewn. 

"You  really  think  that  would  be  a  crime?  I've  come  to 
you  for  your  opinion.  A  crime  against  Barbara?" 

"Against  yourself.  I  don't  think  it  would  affect  her.  Do 
you  know  anything  about  the  course  of  preparation  before 
you're  received  into  the  Church  ?  You'll  have  to  tell  one  lie 
after  another,  weeks'and  weeks  of  them.  And,  when  you've 
been  received,  you'll  have  to  continue.  D'you  propose  to  go 
regularly  to  Mass  ?  Will  you  go  to  Confession  ?" 

Barbara's  reputation  for  laxity  was  widely  known  and 
disapproved. 

"I'll  do  whatever  my  wife  does,"  Jack  promised. 

Though  he  pretended  to  keep  an  open  mind,  he  was  in- 
viting criticism  only  for  the  satisfaction  of  demolishing  it. 
Loring  was  still  shocked  and  doubly  shocked  that  he  could 
make  no  impression  on  his  friend's  stubborn  insensibility. 

"Have  you  discussed  it  with  your  people?"  he  asked. 

"I've  discussed  it  with  no  one.  It'll  be  hell  for  them,  of 
course." 

"They  won't  be  taken  in." 

Jack  smiled  a  little  ruefully  and  took  up  his  position  in 
front  of  the  fire-place,  facing  his  friend. 

"They  won't  be  taken  in,"  he  agreed.  "They'll  hate  it. 
/  hate  it.  It's  a  lie,  a  chain  of  lies.  I  don't  expect  that  I 
shall  ever  be  able  to  invent  excuses  or  tell  myself  a  fairy- 
tale to  get  round  it.  The  best  I  can  say  is  that  it's  the  only 
means  and  that  the  end  must  justify  the  means.  I  can't 
defend  myself,  Jim." 

It  was  difficult  to  reason  with  a  man  who  admitted  every 
charge  in  advance,  and  Loring  was  puzzled  to  know  why 
they  were  arguing  at  all. 

"You're  committing  a  crime  against  yourself — and  mak- 


I94  LADY  LILITH 

ing  your  family  perfectly  miserable,"  he  pointed  out.  "I 
know  people  rob  and  murder,  when  they're  in  love,  but  why 
come  and  tell  me  about  it  ?" 

"I  wanted  you  as  a  barometer — for  my  own  sanity.  Have 
I  lost  touch  with  reality  ?" 

"I  think  you're  quite  mad.  I've  been  through  it  myself ; 
and  I  was  just  as  mad.  The  best  advice  I  can  give  you  is 
to  go  away  from  Babs  for  three  or  six  months  and  see  how 
you  feel.  If  it's  as  bad  as  ever  at  the  end  .  .  .  No,  I'm 
damned  if  I  take  the  responsibility  of  encouraging  you; 
I  feel  as  badly  about  it  as  that." 

Both  started  guiltily  as  the  butler  came  in  with  a  tray  of 
decanters  and  glasses,  and  Jack  murmured,  "Jove !  It's  get- 
ting late."  When  they  were  alone  again,  he  took  a  second 
cigar  and  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair. 

"We  might  make  a  present  of  this  to  Eric  Lane,"  he  said 
grimly,  "for  one  of  his  plays.  I've  never  before  been  up 
against  a  thing  where  there  was  so  little  chance  of  com- 
promise. Or,  if  I  have,  I've  always  said,  "There's  only  one 
possible  thing  to  do/'  and  I've  tried  to  do  it.  D'you  remem- 
ber Raney's  cheerful  prophecy  my  last  night  in  Oxford? 
Within  ten  years  we  should  all  have  made  such  fools  of 
ourselves  that  we  should  wish  we  were  dead.  Nine  years 
ago.  Your  undergraduate  is  a  sexless  creature ;  we  none  of 
us  thought  then  that  a  mere  woman  could  mess  up  our 
lives  .  .  .  Well,  I've  had  a  run  for  my  money." 

"There's  only  one  possible  thing  to  do  here,"  said  Loring 
emphatically,  holding  him  back  as  he  tried  to  change  the 
subject. 

"You  weren't  such  a  sea-green  incorruptible  three  years 
ago." 

"When  7  made  a  fool  of  myself.  .  .  .  There's  no  com- 
parison. I  was  prepared  to  flout  the  Church  and  marry 
without  dispensation;  it  wouldn't  have  been  a  valid  mar- 
riage in  the  eyes  of  the  Chnrch,  and  the  whole  of  Catholic 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON       195 

society  would  have  cut  me.  But  I  never  offered  Sonia  to 
change  one  faith  for  another  or  to  pretend  that  I  had." 

Jack  sprang  violently  out  of  his  chair  and  strode  to 
Loring's  sofa,  standing  over  him  with  legs  apart  and  arms 
akimbo. 

"But  if  she'd  insisted?  You've  got  to  be  honest  about 
this." 

Loring  looked  up  at  the  unwontedly  white  face  and  burn- 
ing eyes  above  him;  then  he  looked  away,  whistled  to  him- 
self and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'd  have  done  it,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  that's  how  7  feel  now." 

"And  if  Babs  were  married  already?" 

Jack  turned  away  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Damn  you,  Jim !"  he  cried. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !    You  would  stop  short  of  some  things." 

"But  then  I  should  be  injuring  another  man." 

"He  might  rejoice  to  be  rid  of  her.  And  here  you're 
injuring  yourself." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  Loring  tried  to  ease  it  by 
filling  two  tumblers  with  brandy  and  soda.  Jack  returned 
to  his  chair,  drawing  furiously  at  his  cigar  and  rapidly 
smoothing  the  back  of  his  head. 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  her  up,"  he  said  at  length. 

"You  can  at  least  go  away  and  think  it  over.  Don't  meet 
her.  Work  as  you've  never  worked  before.  Mark  you,  the 
best  thing  is  to  go  right  away.  She  won't  help  you  a  bit. 
Women  are  cruel  and  women  are  selfish.  If  she's  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  can't  marry  you,  she'll  do  the  next  best 
thing  for  herself  and  take  good  care  that  she  gets  all  the 
time,  attention,  affection  that  she  can  out  of  you.  And  your 
nerves  will  crack.  If  you  live  within  telephoning  or  writ- 
ing distance,  you're  done  for.  /  saw  that  for  myself.  When 
I  got  back  to  England  a  few  months  ago,  I  only  consented 
to  stay  in  London  when  I  heard  that  Sonia  had  gone  abroad. 


I96  LADY  LILITH 

She'd  have  tried  to  get  on  some  kind  of  terms  with  me.  If 
I'd  still  been  smashed  up,  she'd  have  wanted  to  have  a  look 
at  her  handiwork;  if  I'd  completely  recovered,  she'd  want 
to  see  whether  she  still  had  the  power  to  cast  a  spell  over 
me.  And,  if  she  felt  she'd  done  me  a  great  wrong,  she'd 
have  wanted  to  vindicate  herself.  Women  drown  bad  con- 
sciences in  self-justification.  Will  you  go  away?" 

"I'll  think  about  it.  Jim,  did  you  know  that  Babs  took 
her  religion  so  seriously?" 

"No,  but  then  I  don't  know  her  at  all  well." 

"I'm  taking  all  she  says  at  face-value,  allowing  for  a  lit- 
tle natural  rhetoric " 

"Well,  I  shouldn't — with  any  woman,"  Loring  inter- 
rupted. "Look  here,  Jack.  You  and  Babs  have  got  your- 
selves into  a  tangle.  You  can  get  out  of  it  by  refusing  to 
see  her  again — which  you  won't  entertain;  or  by  perjuring 
yourself — which  I  hope  and  pray  you  won't  do;  or  by  her 
climbing  down  a  bit.  One  of  you  has  to  make  the  sacrifice ; 
and  I'm  inclined  to  think  Solomon  would  have  said  that,  if 
she's  not  prepared  to  climb  down — you're  not  asking  her  to 
do  anything  that  the  Church  forbids — she's  not  in  earnest, 
she's  not  worth  having.  Solomon  would  have  said  that,  if 
she  put  you  in  the  second  place,  she  didn't  want  you.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  whether  she  does.  For  all  I  know  she's  just  made 
up  her  mind  to  add  your  scalp  to  her  belt.  Why  the  deuce 
did  she  let  you  propose  to  her — you  did  actually,  didn't 
you? — if  she  meant  to  bring  up  this  objection  at  the  last 
minute  ?" 

"It  was  only  when  7  began  to  trot  out  the  objections  that 
she  recognized  them.  Jim,  this  is  a  question  of  instinct; 
whether  a  woman's  really  in  love  with  you  or  whether  she's 
only  pretending  may  be  felt,  but  no  one  can  prove  it.  I 
take  it — though  I've  had  no  experience — that  there's  always 
a  moment  when  a  woman  surrenders,  not  only  in  words  but 


THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  SOLOMON      197 

with  all  her  being.  If  you'd  ever  broken  in  a  horse,  you'd 
know  what  I  mean.  It's  like  that  with  her." 

Loring  raised  his  eyebrows  in  passing  surprise  at  the  com- 
parison no  less  than  at  Jack's  assurance. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  said  without  conviction. 
"If  you're  right,  she'll  climb  down.  If  she  won't  climb 
down,  it  means  she  doesn't  want  you." 

Jack  pondered  for  a  while  without  answering;  then  he 
looked  at  his  watch  and  jumped  up  with  a  murmur  of  dis- 
may. 

"Jim,  d'you  know  it's  just  on  two  ?" 

"I  wonder  what  time  it  was  when  I'd  finished  pouring  out 
my  troubles  to  George  that  night !  I  hope  it's  going  to  be 
all  right,  Jack,  though  a  mixed  marriage  is  a  hideous  gam- 
ble. And  Babs  is  a  fair  gamble  in  herself.  And  I  wish  I 
felt  as  certain  of  her  as  you  do.  Mind,  three  months " 

"I  don't  commit  myself  to  any  specific  period,"  Jack 
interrupted,  as  they  went  into  the  hall.  Barbara  had  the 
obstinate  vanity  of  a  spoilt  and  wilful  child ;  after  refusing 
to  yield  on  one  point,  she  was  capable  of  sacrificing  even 
her  own  happiness  to  sustain  her  refusal. 

"If  she  holds  out  for  three  months,"  said  Loring  gravely, 
"it'll  mean  that  there's  something  in  her  life  bigger  than 
you." 

Jack  laughed  and  ran  down  the  steps  into  Curzon  Street. 
That  she  wanted  him  was  never  in  doubt  since  her  first 
advances  at  the  Croxton  ball. 

"Good-night,  Jim,  and  many  thanks.  You'll  hear  from 
me  before  I  die." 

"Best  of  luck,  old  man,"  Loring  called  back,  with  such 
heartiness  as  he  could  force  into  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

VINDICATION 

"Casilda :  But  it's  so  undignified— it's  so  degrading !  A  Grandee 
of  Spain  turned  into  a  public  company !  Such  a  thing 
was  never  heard  of ! 

Duke:  My  child,  the  Duke  of  Plaza-Toro  does  not  follow 
fashions — he  leads  them." 

W.  S.  GILBERT:     "THE  GONDOLIERS." 

AT  the  beginning  of  June  Jack  received  a  letter  in  a  well- 
known  hand-writing  from  a  familiar  address. 

"Pump  Court,  Temple,  E.  C. 

"Have  you  ever  done  your  duty  by  the  University  of 
Oxford?  I  mean,  have  you  ever  taken  your  M.  A.?  I 
haven't,  though  I  ought  to  have  years  ago,  and  I'm  sure  you 
haven't,  either.  What  do  you  think  about  going  up  next 
Degree  Day?  I'll  find  out  when  Ot  is  and  order  rooms  and 
pack  your  suit-case  and  take  it  to  Paddington  and  buy  a 
ticket  arid  generally  nursenfaid  you,  as  I  used  to  do  in  the 
days  before  you  were  a  social  success.  I  never  see  you  now- 
adays either  on  the  Winchester  train  or  in  London;  they  say 
that  you  have  deserted  your  various  clu'Us  for  the  gilded 
saloons  of  May  fair.  Let  -me  know  what's  happened  to  you. 
Ever  yours,  Eric  Lane" 

Jack  welcomed  the  diversion  and  wrote  an  enthusiastic 
acceptance.  For  some  months  he  had  been  too  much  occu- 
pied with  Barbara  to  spare  regrets  for  Eric,  but  he  was 
sorry  to  feel  that  they  were  drifting  apart.  And  the  invita- 
tion gave  him  an  excuse  for  spending  a  long  week-end  out 
of  London.  Since  the  Ross  House  ball  he  had  held  no  com- 

198 


VINDICATION  199 

munication  with  Barbara;  since  his  unburdening  of  soul  to 
Jim  Loring  he  had  avoided  every  one  who  might  ask  him 
why  he  was  in  hiding  or  report  to  her  that  he  had  been 
tracked  down.  Lady  Knightrider  tried  once  or  twice  to 
secure  him  for  dinner,  but  after  a  few  failures  she  accepted 
his  plea  of  private  work.  And  very  soon  the  inquisitive  had 
other  food  for  their  curiosity.  Arden  concentrated  his  at- 
tention on  a  possible  match  between  Loring  and  Miss 
Hunter-Oakleigh ;  Summertown  threw  needful  light  on  a 
newly  discovered  intrigue  between  Mrs.  Welman  and  Sir 
Deryk  Lancing;  and  Deganway  confined  his  energies  to 
scandalous  speculation  about  a  motor  tour  which  Sir  Adolf 
Erckmann  was  conducting  in  South  Europe  with  his  sister, 
young  Webster,  Sonia  Dainton  and  others  of  less  stable 
reputation. 

"Delighted  to  come,"  Jack  wrote  to  Eric.  "Let  me  know 
the  day  and  the  train;  everything  else  I  leave  to  you.  It's 
ages  since  I  saw  you." 

However  far  the  gossip  had  spread,  it  was  unlikely  to 
have  reached  Pump  Court.  But,  if  he  felt  secure  from  im- 
pertinent questions,  Jack  would  have  paid  a  high  price  to 
meet  any  one  who  could  give  him  tidings  of  Barbara.  Until 
six  months  before,  he  had  been  content  with  his  own  com- 
pany, but  the  daily  close  intimacy  had  set  up  an  itch  for 
confidences.  He  wanted  to  know  how  she  was  and  what 
she  was  doing,  whether  she  was  missing  him.  In  three 
weeks  there  had  been  no  sign  of  capitulation.  And  he  de- 
pended for  news  of  her  on  chance  paragraphs  in  the  illus- 
trated papers.  Eric  entered  the  train  at  Paddington  with 
the  current  number  of  the  Catch,  containing  a  full-page 
photograph  of  her  in  eastern  dress.  There  was  also  an 
Albert  Hall  group  in  which  she  figured  with  half  a  dozen  of 
the  very  people  who  were  not  good  enough  for  her.  It  was 
disappointing,  and  others  were  disappointed  too. 

"I've  no  news  for  you,  but  I've  been  thinking  over  this 


200  LADY  LILITH 

business  a  good  deal,"  Loring  had  written  two  days  earlier. 
"/  can  promise  you  a  very  friendly  reception  from  the  fam- 
ily, if  and  when  you  do  adjust  your  differences  with  Bar- 
bara. My  aunt,  Kathleen  Knightrider,  is  in  despair;  she 
says  you  were  the  only  person  who  ever  had  any  influence 
over  Bobs.  Now  that  you've  disappeared,  she's  picking  up 
with  all  the  old  lot.  Craivleigh's  afraid  to  protest,  because 
he  doesn't  want  to  precipitate  a  row.  She  comes  of  age  in 
a  few  weeks,  and  then  no  one  can  stop  her.  .  .  " 

Jack  was  wondering  with  vague  dissatisfaction  how  much 
more  time  to  give  her  for  making  a  move,  when  his  hand 
was  forced.  On  returning  to  London  after  the  week-end, 
he  lighted  on  a  photograph  with  the  description,  "Lady  Bar- 
bara Neave,  Who  is  Giving  a  Sensational  Ball.  See  p.  7." 
He  turned  to  the  page  indicated  and  read  a  gossipy  half- 
column  over  the  signature  of  "A  Woman  About  Town." 

"A  mad  world,  my  masters!  But  an  amusing  one,  don't 
you  think?  The  oldsters  say  'What  next,  what  next?'  but 
the  youngsters  always  have  'nextf  up  their  sleeves,  and  it's 
always  better  than  the  last.  Youth  for  ever!  We  had  the 
Shakespeare  Ball,  and  the  Regency  Ball  threw  it  into  the 
shade.  Then  the  Young  Bachelors  took  the  field — and  were 
driven  from  it  (with  full  honours  of  war,  and  all  thanks  to 
you,  dear  young  bachelors,  for  a  glorious  evening)  by  The 
Rest.  Mrs.  Leo  Butler  gave  her  Night  in  a  Persian  Garden, 
and  Lady  Hessler  retaliated  with  her  Daybreak  Dance, 
which  started  at  four — it's  still  going-  on,  for  all  I  know. 
A  \rnad  world!  And  the  oldsters  are  being  attacked  by  the 
madness.  These  'boy-and-girl'  dances  were  squeezing 
them  into  the  cold,  so  they  gave  a  ball  to  themselves  where 
only  the  married  could  hope  for  admission.  'The  Hags' 
Hop'  said  irreverent  Youth  and  bided  its  time  for  revenge. 
And  now  it  is  coming — in  Ascot  Week.  I  rub  my  eyes, 
for  the  World  and  His  Wife  will  be  at  the  Bodmin  Lodge 
ball,  as  they  have  always  been  and  as  their  fathers  and 


VINDICATION  201 

mothers  were  before  them.  Ascot  Week?  Bodmin  Lodge? 
One  would  as  soon  compete  with  the  Royal  Enclosure  as 
with  the  Bodmin  Lodge  ball.  Yet\ — it  is  not  the  whisper  of 
ony  faithful  little  bird,  but  an  engraved  card — 'Lady  Bar- 
bara Neave,  At  Home.'  Fancy  Dress,  she  says  in  one  cor- 
ner. At  the  Empire  Hotel.  And  my  little  bird  tells  me 
that  it  will  rival  and  outshine  the  Jubilee  Ball  at  Devon- 
shire House,  when  we  were  all  tiny  tots.  If  I  know  any- 
thing of  Lady  Barbara,  it  will  be  the  ball  of  the  season. 
Youth  for  ever!  But  it  is  a  mad  world.  'What  are  our 
girls  coming  to?'  the  oldsters  ask.  'A  girl  giving  a  ball!' 
'And  a  wonderful  ball  it  will  be,'  say  I.  Best  wishes,  Lady 
Barbara!" 

Jack  assumed  that  Barbara  must  be  organizing  a  ball  for 
some  charity  and  thought  no  more  of  the  announcement 
until  he  met  Loring  at  the  County  Club  that  night  before 
dinner  and  was  hurried  into  the  cool  and  deserted  billiard- 
room. 

"I  say,  have  you  seen  about  my  precious  cousin's  latest 
freak?"  Loring  began.  "There's  been  the  most  colossal 
row !" 

"I  saw  an  announcement  about  a  ball  in  one  of  the 
papers,"  Jack  answered. 

"One  of  them !  She's  got  it  in  every  rag  in  the  kingdom, 
morning  and  evening,  penny  plain  and  twopence  coloured. 
Barbara's  thorough ;  I'll  say  that  for  her.  There's  no  going 
back." 

He  paused  to  fan  himself  and  ring  for  a  glass  of  sherry. 

"What  exactly  was  the  row  ?"  asked  Jack. 

"Well,  you  know,  she's  coming  of  age  next  week ;  and  the 
Crawleighs  thought  it  was  a  good  opportunity  for  working 
off  old  scores.  Nominally  it  was  to  be  Barbara's  party,  but, 
when  they  started  on  their  list,  she  found  that  some  of  her 
more  objectionable  friends  were  being  cut  out.  I've  no 
doubt  Crawleigh  did  it  as  tactlessly  as  possible,  and  Barbara 


202  LADY  LILITH 

took  it  as  a  challenge.  Both  sides  fought  the  question  on 
principle,  Crawleigh  lost  his  temper  on  principle,  Babs— 
on  principle — kept  hers  and  said  that,  if  her  friends  couldn't 
come  to  the  house,  she'd  give  a  party  for  them  elsewhere." 

"Characteristic,"  Jack  murmured. 

"Very.  It  sounded  like  an  empty  threat,  but  that  little 
devil — she  is  a  little  devil,  Jack.  If  I  were  in  your  place, 
I'd  no  more  think  of  marrying  her  than  of  marrying  a  wild 
animal — well,  she  was  going  to  make  this  an  Austerlitz  or 
a  Waterloo — no  drawn  battles  for  Babs;  she  deliberately 
chose  the  night  of  the  Bodmin  Lodge  ball  and  invited 
everybody  she'd  ever  heard  of.  I  got  my  card  within  twenty 
hours  of  the  original  row." 

"Are  you  going  ?" 

Loring  laughed  grimly  and  postponed  answering  the 
question. 

"She's  thorough !"  he  repeated.  "I  was  still  at  breakfast, 
when  she  came  in;  I  gather  she's  doing  a  house-to-house 
canvass.  'Jim  darling,  you're  coming  to  my  party,  aren't 
you?'  she  said.  'I  want  it  to  be  a  success.'  'I  am  not,'  I 
said.  'I  heard  about  the  row  and  I  think  you're  behaving 
abominably.'  'It'll  look  bad,  if  my  own — loving — cousin 
stops  away  from  my  coming-of-age  ball,'  she  said,  her  eyes 
simply  gleaming  with  devilry.  'Jim,  if  you  all  go  against 
me,  you'll  spoil  my  party,  and  father'll  think  he's  won.  Then 
I  shall  go  away  and  live  by  myself;  and  that  would  make  a 
scandal,  which  you'd  hate.'  I  told  her  that  she  was  a  little 
devil — in  case  she  didn't  know  it  before.  Then  she  came 
behind  my  chair  and  put  her  arms  round  my  neck;  and  I 
called  her  a  number  of  other  things.  Mark  you,  I  dislike 
her;  I  think  she's  intrinsically  unsound,  but  I'm  not  in  the 
least  surprised  that  you  fell  in  love  with  her ;  she  knows  her 
job  so  well.  She  said  with  a  tear  in  her  voice — and  in  her 
eyes ;  if  you  ever  see  her  blinking  quickly,  it's  just  to  make 
herself  cry.  .  .  .  All  right,  but  you  may  as  well  know  these 


VINDICATION  203 

things  before  you  marry  her — she  said,  'Jim  darling,  I  love 
you,  but  you  do  make  it  hard  for  us  to  be  friends.'  I  told 
her  again  that  I  wasn't  coming  to  her  ball.  She  sighed  and 
began  putting  on  her  gloves.  At  the  door  she  turned  round 
and  said,  'Jim,  you  know  the  little  paragraph  "Among 
those  present  .  .  ."?  Sometimes  it's  "Among  those  who 
accepted  invitations.  .  .  ."  I'm  going  to  have  a  special  para- 
graph— "Among  those  who  refused  invitations  was  the 
Marquess  Loring." '  Then  she  became  a  hundred  per  cent 
devil;  she  was  thoroughly  enjoying  herself.  'I  won't  let  it 
stop  at  that !  I'm  going  to  have  this  thing  properly  adver- 
tised. In  the  morning  you'll  see  wonderful  descriptions  and 
pictures  of  the  ball — and  that  paragraph.  And  the  evening 
papers  will  comment  on  it — all  the  disreputable  ones;  I'm 
the  greatest  friends  with  all  the  really  disreputable  papers. 
And  next  day  you'll  see  pictures  of  yourself  in  the  dis- 
reputable daily  papers — "Lord  Loring,  Who  is  Reported  to 
have  said  'Damned  if  I  do !'  when  his  cousin  Lady  Barbara 
Neave  invited  him  to  her  ball."  I  don't  want  to  do  it;  it'll 
be  a  great  deal  of  trouble ;  but  this  quarrel  has  been  forced 
on  me,  and,  if  you  drive  me  to  it,  I  shall  go  through  to  the 
end.' "  Loring  sighed  and  fanned  himself  again.  "You 
can't  argue  with  a  woman,  when  she's  like  that.  I  said  I'd 
come.  My  mother  and  Amy  came  in,  and  she  talked  them 
over  inside  two  minutes — left  them  with  the  idea  that  the 
Crawleighs  habitually  tied  her  to  the  bed-post  and  took  a 
cat-o'-nine-tails  to  her  (I  wish  they  would)  ;  then  she  went 
off  to  continue  the  house-to-house  canvass.  It's  heart-break- 
ing!" 

Jack  listened  with  relief  to  the  end  of  the  tale.  He  had 
feared  something  worse,  but  he  would  almost  rather  hear  of 
Barbara's  misbehaving  herself  than  not  hear  of  her  at  all. 

"There's  no  great  harm  done,"  he  suggested. 

"It's  a  toss-up.  She  can't  blackmail  everybody  as  she 
blackmailed  me.  God  knows!  you  can  do  most  things  in 


204  LADY  LILITH 

the  year  of  grace  1914,  but  an  unmarried  girl,  with  parents 
living,  doesn't  give  balls  on  her  own.  Any  number  of  peo- 
ple have  rather  raised  their  eyebrows  in  talking  to  me  about 
it.  If  it's  a  success,  there's  about  a  six-to-four  odds-on 
chance  that  people  will  think  it  rather  a  joke,  Barbara's  late- 
est  freak.  But,  if  the  thing's  a  failure,  if  any  one  starts  a 
movement  against  it,  then  Barbara  will  declare  war  on  so- 
ciety. Don't  make  any  mistake;  this  isn't  a  fit  of  temper, 
it's  a  phase  in  her  natural  developement.  I've  seen  it  coming 
for  a  long  time;  she  wants  to  be  in  the  position  where  a 
thing  becomes  right  because  she  does  it ;  she's  always  disre- 
garded the  law  and  now  she  wants  to  make  the  law.  If  the 
girl  only  had  sisters!  They  might  keep  her  in  order  .  .  . 
You  know,  there's  a  certain  magnificence  about  her;  she's 
surrounded  herself  with  every  natural  difficulty  she  could 
find — Bodmin  Lodge;  she's  raiding  the  Pebbleridge  pre- 
serve in  broad  day-light,  she's  asked  Lady  Pebbleridge  to 
come  on  after  her  own  party.  Fancy  dress — she's  set  her- 
self to  rival  the  Devonshire  House  ball.  .  .  .  Jack,  is  that 
the  girl  you  want  to  marry?  D'you  imagine  you'll  ever 
be  able  to  control  her?  If  you'd  seen  her  standing  by  the 
door — it  was  Joan  of  Arc  giving  the  signal  for  battle." 

"She  can't  blackmail  me." 

"What  else  is  she  doing  now  ?  She's  blackmailing  every 
one." 

"Well,  obviously  I  can't  stop  it  until  communications  are 
re-established." 

"Then  for  the  love  of  Heaven No,  I  won't  say  that." 

"Go  on." 

Loring  looked  at  him  closely  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  wonder  whether  you're  responsible  for  this  new  out- 
break of  hers?  This  is  the  way  she  used  to  behave  a  year 
ago  and  for  some  time  before  that.  Then  she  dropped  it. 
Now  she's  started  again.  .  .  .  My  difficulty  is  that  I  don't 
know  if  she  cares  for  you,  if  she's  capable  of  caring  for  any 


VINDICATION  205 

one.  This  may  be  her  vindication — to  shew  that  she  can  do 
anything.  Or  she  may  be  fond  of  you,  she  may  feel  she's 
lost  you.  She's  got  the  pride  of  a  spoilt  child.  I  think  now, 
though  I  didn't  think  it  when  you  dined  with  me,  that  she'll 
never  climb  down  voluntarily.  Possibly  she's  trying  to  for- 
get you." 

Jack  roused  with  a  jerk  and  then  dropped  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands.  He  had  never  imagined  that  she  was  as 
lonely  as  he  had  been. 

"What  d'you  suggest,  Jim?" 

"I  don't  know.  If  she's  gone  Berserk  on  your  account, 
I  warn  you  that  she's  in  the  mood  to  marry  the  first  man  in 
the  street  who's  kind  to  her.  /  felt  like  that  after  the  break- 
up with  Sonia.  This  ball  is  only  a  symptom." 

Loring  ceased  staring  out  of  the  window  and  glanced 
down  at  his  companion.  Jack  was  still  sitting  with  his  fists 
pressed  against  his  temples,  motionless  and  silent.  A  mem- 
ber flung  open  the  door,  peered  round  the  room  and  with- 
drew. As  the  clock  chimed  eight,  Loring  looked  at  his 
watch,  scribbled  a  telephone  message  and  rang  for  a  page. 

"You've  shifted  your  ground  since  last  we  discussed  this 
subject,"  Jack  observed  at  length. 

"I  don't  know  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes.  You  want  me  to  stop  the  Berseck  phase.  You 
think  I'm  at  the  bottom  of  it?  Well,  I've  got  my  share  of 
pride  or  vanity  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  I've  asked 
her  once,  and  she  turned  me  down  because  I  wasn't  a  Cath- 
olic. I'm  not  going  to  call  daily,  like  a  milkman.  Do  you 
want  me  to  go  to  her  and  say  I'm  a  Catholic  ?" 

Loring  shook  his  head  resolutely. 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  the  responsibility  of  that." 

"Responsibility  be  damned!  You've  taken  the  responsi- 
bility of  Baying  that  I've  brought  about  all  this  trouble  and 
that,  apparently,  I'm  the  only  person  who  can  stop  it. 
You're  not  naturally  sanctimonious,  Jim,  but  you've  got  a 


2o6  LADY  LILITH 

wonderful  passion  for  not  committing  yourself.  Will  you 
take  the  responsibility  of  not  repeating  our  conversation  to 
anybody  ?" 

Loring  looked  up  with  startled  eyes,  but  the  door  slammed 
before  he  could  answer. 

For  perhaps  three  days  the  success  of  "The  Children's 
Party,"  as  Barbara's  costume  ball  came  to  be  designated, 
hung  in  the  balance.  Some  of  those  who  might  not  have 
objected  to  the  ball  itself  disliked  Barbara's  association  with 
it  and  the  salvo  of  press  welcome  which  advertised  a  pri- 
vate party  as  though  it  were  a  public  charity.  But,  while 
her  critics  murmured,  Barbara  was  telephoning,  writing  and 
driving  round  London  to  divide  and  win  over  the  enemy, 
always  using  the  promises  of  her  first  victims  to  persuade 
the  others.  If  Lady  Loring  consented  to  come,  who  less 
exalted  had  the  right  to  raise  her  voice?  Because  it  had 
never  been  done  before,  was  that  a  reason  why  it  should  not 
be  done  now?  Novelty  and  organization  effected  much, 
curiosity  more;  for  Deganway,  with  his  genius  for  discov- 
ering other  people's  secrets,  published  abroad  that  there  had 
been  civil  war  in  Berkeley  Square  and  that  the  ball  was 
Barbara's  declaration  of  independence. 

"The  Crawleighs  simply  don't  know  what  to  do !"  he  ex- 
claimed gleefully  on  the  fourth  day  of  the  campaign.  "Posi- 
tively everybody's  coming — except  the  Pebbleridges,  of 
course ;  I  saw  Harriet  Pebbleridge  yesterday,  and  she's  per- 
fectly furious." 

"One  was  told  that  the  parents  were  formally  invited," 
said  Val  Arden,  "but  it  was  made  clear  that  they  must  com- 
port themselves  as  guests.  Lady  Lilith  would  receive  alone. 
You  are  thinking  of  looking  in,  George?  Yes?  One  had 
some  difficulty  in  deciding  on  a  suitable  costume.  A  Mod- 
ern Financier — after  our  good  Sir  Adolf  Erckmann?  Were 
one's  health  more  robust,  one  would  be  tempted  to  give  a 
party  'As  Others  See  Us'  and  to  insist  that  one's  guests 


VINDICATION  207 

should  each  personate  a  friend.  Chastening,  chastening! 
One  would  expose  oneself  to  indifferent  parodies  by  Lady 
Maitland,  whom  one  has  had  the  ill  fortune  to  offend.  .  .  ." 

For  ten  days  the  theatrical  costumiers  were  kept  busy. 
Historic  dresses  were  disinterred,  chain  armour  was  taken 
down  from  the  walls ;  and  there  was  bitter  rivalry  between 
those  who  simultaneously  selected  the  same  character.  When 
every  one  had  made  his  choice,  Barbara  intimated  that  she 
would  like  photographs  of  all;  and  for  another  week  the 
studios  were  thronged.  It  was  agreed  at  the  outset  that  no 
one  would  go  to  Bodmin  Lodge  and  the  Empire  Hotel  on 
the  same  night;  and,  as  the  discussion  of  costumes  ruled  out 
every  other  interest,  Barbara  found  herself  besieged  with 
requests  for  invitations ;  to  be  omitted  was  to  be  disgraced ; 
and  she  had  the  gratification  of  sending  belated  cards  to 
more  than  one  critic  who  in  the  first  excited  hours  had  pro- 
tested that  brute  force  alone  would  send  her  to  the  Empire 
Hotel  under  such  auspices. 

"It's  her  Austerlitz  and  my  uncle's  Waterloo,"  said  Lor- 
ing  to  Jack,  when  they  met  two  days  before  the  ball.  He 
was  careful  not  to  ask  what  his  friend  had  been  doing  since 
last  they  met.  "It's  her  great  vindication ;  Crawleigh's 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  come — to  avoid  a  scandal.  She's 
stampeded  London ;  everybody's  accepted,  and  I  believe 
they'll  all  come  for  fear  people  will  think  they've  not  been 
invited.  It's  as  bad  as  that." 

"There's  one  person  who  didn't  accept,"  said  Jack,  with 
a  crooked  smile. 

"She  invited  you?  Well,  it  would  have  been  rather 
pointed  to  leave  you  out.  And  she  wouldn't  be  human,  if 
she  didn't  want  you  to  see  her  in  her  triumph." 

"I  shall  depend  on  you  to  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Jack. 

"Oh,  I  shall  just  shake  hands  with  her  and  then  go  straight 
home  to  bed." 

As  the  day  approached,  the  excitement  redoubled  until 


208  LADY  LILITH 

Barbara  herself  began  to  fear  an  anticlimax.  Only  the  need 
of  registering  her  triumph  prevailed  over  physical  exhaus- 
tion and  sustained  her  in  the  stifling  hostility  of  Berkeley 
Square.  Her  father  and  mother  drove  with  her  to  the  hotel 
and  were  formally  announced.  They  would  have  liked  to 
loiter  near  her  and  to  suggest  that  they  were  the  hosts  and 
were  indulging  their  daughter's  whim,  but  Barbara  urged 
them  into  the  ball-room  and  returned  alone  to  her  place  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  There  for  an  hour  she  received  and 
tried  to  keep  count  of  her  guests.  Congratulations  poured 
in  upon  her;  she  was  complimented  on  her  enterprise,  her 
looks,  her  dress. 

"No  one  but  you  would  have  thought  of  doing  such  a 
thing,"  cried  Lady  Maitland  admiringly. 

"Oh,  I  expect  a  great  many  people  thought  of  it,  but  I 
was  the  only  one  who  did  it,"  she  answered,  and  the  phrase 
comforted  her. 

Bobbie  Pentyre,  who  had  been  sent  to  spy  out  the  naked- 
ness of  Bodmin  Lodge,  arrived  late  with  the  report  that  it 
was  almost  deserted  and  that  Lady  Pebbleridge,  black  with 
rage,  had  announced  that  she  would  never  give  another  ball, 
if  people  deserted  her  at  the  last  moment  like  this. 

"She  said  that  your  leavings  weren't  good  enough  for 
her,"  he  added.  "I  thought  that  was  rather  rude  to  the  peo- 
ple who  had  toiled  all  the  way  out  to  Knightsbridge,  so  I 
handed  it  on  to  any  one  who  I  thought  would  be  interested, 
and  that  emptied  the  house  quicker  than  ever." 

"I'm  sorry  if  her  party's  a  failure,"  said  Barbara,  "but — 
if  people  prefer  coming  to  me  .  .  .  ?" 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  door  of  the  ball-room.  The 
crowd  was  too  great  for  dancing,  and  her  guests  were 
parading  four  abreast,  until  she  should  give  the  signal  and 
march  at  their  head  to  supper.  Inside  the  doorway  her 
father  was  standing  in  the  robes  of  John,  first  baron,  Lord 


VINDICATION  209 

High  Chancellor  of  England.  She  went  up  to  him  and 
slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"Am  I  forgiven,  father?"  she  asked  with  a  smile.  "You 
know  how  I  hate  people  to  be  angry  with  me." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  ask  for  forgiveness  when  you've  got 
your  own  way/'  said  Lord  Crawleigh  with  a  vengeful  tug 
at  his  blonde  moustache. 

"But,  if  I  want  my  own  way,  haven't  I  inherited  that 
from  you  ?"  she  asked  gently.  "It's  no  good  trying  to  bully 
me,  because  I  won't  be  bullied.  You  admit  now  that  there 
was  nothing  very  sinful  in  this  ball  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  sinful,"  Lord  Crawleigh  returned 
sharply.  "I  said  that  such  a  thing  had  never  been  done 
before.  There  was  no  precedent." 

"But  every  one  will  do  it  now !"  she  cried  proudly.  "That 
you  won't  see,  father;  I  establish  precedents." 

"I  don't  see  it  and  I  won't  see  it." 

Barbara  sighed  and  looked  down  on  him  with  half-closed 
eyes  and  drooping  mouth. 

"Don't  you  like  to  see  me  happy,  father  ?  Won't  you  kiss 
me  and  say  I'm  forgiven?" 

Lord  Crawleigh  stiffened  and  drew  away,  as  Loring  cam*, 
up  from  behind,  pushing  open  his  visor. 

"Well,  I've  kept  my  promise,  Barbara,"  he  began  coldly. 
"The  prodigal  daughter  scene  didn't  go  with  much  of  a 
swing,  I  thought." 

"The  prodigal  son  never  promised  not  to  be  prodigal 
again.  He  was  tired  and  hungry,  poor  boy,  and  nobody 
cared  for  him.  I'm  tired,  too ;  I've  been  standing  ever  since 
a  quarter  past  ten.  And  I'm  hungry.  Would  you  like  to 
take  me  down  to  supper?" 

Her  pleading  voice  seemed  to  bring  to  the  surface  every- 
thing that  was  hard  in  Loring's  kindly  nature. 

"Not  in  the  least,  thank  you,  Barbara,"  he  said,  "after 
the  way  you  blackmailed  me  into  coming  here.  I've  kept 


210  LADY  LILITH 

my  promise  and  I  should  be  half-way  home  by  now  if  I 
hadn't  run  into  Violet  Hunter-Oakleigh.  I'm  having  supper 
with  her." 

"Ah,  I  invited  her  specially  to  please  you.  Every  one 
says  you're  in  love  with  each  other.  She's  a  dear  girl,  but 
I  think  she's  got  fatty  degeneration  of  the  conscience."  She 
looked  thoughtfully  at  her  cousin,  and  her  face  lit  up  with 
a  mischievous  smile.  "Jim,  darling !  I  only  said  that  to  see 
if  it  would  make  you  angry.  So  you  are  in  love  with  her? 
Well,  I'm  really  very  fond  of  Violet,  even  if  she  does  cross 
herself  when  I  come  into  the  room.  ...  If  you  knew  how 
absurd  it  was  to  look  angry  in  that  costume !  I'm  not  hav- 
ing a  great  success  with  my  relations  to-night.  Sometimes 
I  wish  father  were  just  a  little  bit  fonder  of  me." 

Loring  turned  away  in  disgust. 

"You  tried  repentance  with  him,  and  it  didn't  come  off. 
For  heaven's  sake  don't  try  the  pathetic  with  me.  I'm  not 
a  responsive  audience." 

"Nor  a  very  intelligent  audience  either,  perhaps.  You 
never  know  when  I'm  sincere.  I  do  feel  it  most  frightfully 
that  I  never  seem  to  get  on  properly  with  mother  and  father ; 
I  love  them — and  yet  I  can't  live  their  life.  The  last  three 
weeks  have  been  horrible — one  scene  after  another  until  I 
was  worn  out ;  I  was  sent  to  Coventry.  And  to-night  I  felt 
dreadfully  tired  and,  though  the  ball's  been  a  success  and 
everybody's  been  sweet,  I  felt  horribly  lonely;  people  were 
calling  me  'dear'  and  'darling'  and  saying  how  beautiful  I 
looked,  and  all  the  time  nobody  really  loved  me — heart  and 
soul.  I  was  quite  sincere;  I  wanted  to  be  friends  with 
father.  Jim,  won't  you  take  me  down  to  supper?  I  want 
to  be  friends  with  you." 

She  looked  up  to  him  with  beseeching,  tired  eyes  and  dis- 
arming pathos.  Loring  surveyed  her  gravely  for  a  moment 
and  then  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"So  it  was  all  leading  up  to  that?    My  dear  Barbara,  if 


VINDICATION  211 

any  one  loved  you — heart  and  soul — which  you  wouldn't 
deserve,  you  simply  wouldn't  recognize  it.  ...  I've  al- 
ready told  you  that  I'm  having  supper  with  Violet." 

"And  you  won't — ask  her  to  excuse  you  ?" 

"No." 

"She'd  let  you  go,  if  you  reminded  her  that  this  is  my 
birthday  party." 

"I  shan't  remind  her." 

Barbara  threw  up  her  chin  and  clasped  her  hands  behind 
her. 

"You  think  I  can't  make  you  take  me  in  to  supper  ?" 

"I'm  quite  sure  of  it." 

"I  see.  Well,  ride  your  ways,  Laird  of  Chepstow.  They 
are  waiting  for  me  to  head  the  procession.  You  had  better 
take  my  place — with  Violet.  Tell  them  that  I  am  not  going 
down.  And,  if  they  ask  why,  say  that  I  begged  my  cousin 
Lord  Loring — as  a  present  to  me  on  my  twenty-first  birth- 
day— to  take  me  down  to  supper.  Say  that  I  was  tired  and 
hungry.  You  needn't  say  that  you  refused;  they'll  guess 
that." 

She  walked  a  few  steps  into  the  room ;  and  Loring,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  followed  her. 

"Do  behave  yourself,  Barbara,"  he  whispered  irritably. 

"Am  I  misbehaving?  No  one  else  seems  to  have  noticed 
it  ...  George !  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  you're  sup- 
posed to  be,  but  you  look  adorable." 

"I'm  a  Spanish  nobleman,  temp.  Philip  the  Second,"  Oak- 
leigh  answered.  "You  know,  Armada  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Barbara,  I've  been  commissioned  to  tell  you  that  the 
poor  old  Duchess  of  Ross  is  faint  with  hunger." 

"Ah,  poor  soul,  so  am  I!  Are  you  taking  her  down? 
How  sweet  of  you!  She's  so  greedy  and  so  malicious.  I 
believe  I  told  the  band  to  play  us  in  with  "Pomp  and  Cir- 
cumstance." Form  them  up,  George,  and  tell  Murano  to 
begin." 


212  LADY  LILITH 

"But  you'll  have  to  lead  off." 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  any  supper." 

"Why  not?    You  deserve  it,  if  anybody  does." 

"I've  not  found  any  one  who'll  associate  with  me  at  sup- 
per." 

"D'you  mean  that  every  one's  paired  off  and  left  you? 
That's  monstrous.  Look  here,  I  don't  like  to  leave  my  pres- 
ent partner  stranded,  but,  if  you  can  hold  out  for  twenty 
minutes,  may  I  come  back  and  take  you  down  ?" 

Barbara  looked  at  Loring  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye 
and  thanked  George  with  a  tired  smile. 

"I  shall  be  too  faint  to  eat  anything  by  then,"  she  an- 
swered. "But  it  was  sweet  of  you  to  offer,  and  you're  sL 
living  lesson  in  manners  for  my  cousin." 

Oakleigh  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Hullo  !    Have  you  two  been  quarrelling?" 

"No,  it's  my  fault.  I've  offended  him,"  Barbara  ex- 
plained. "You  see,  it's  my  birthday,  and,  ever  since  I  was 
a  baby,  everybody's  done  everything  I  wanted  on  my  birth- 
day. I  wanted  to  have  supper  with  Jim,  so  I  refused  Bob- 
bie Pentyre  and  Charlie  Framlingham  and  Johnnie  Car- 
stairs.  Then  I  asked  Jim,  and  I'm  afraid  he  thought  that 
a  girl  oughtn't  to  ask  a  man  to  take  her  to  supper — even  her 
own  cousin,  at  her  own  ball,  on  her  own  birthday." 

There  was  a  conciliatory  laugh  from  Oakleigh,  but  Lor- 
ing frowned  with  ill  humour. 

"That's  not  true,  Barbara,"  he  said. 

"I'm  sorry,  Jim ;  it  was  the  only  reason  I  could  think  of. 
When  I  first  asked  you,  I  didn't  know  you  were  engaged." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other ;  and  Barbara  smiled  a 
welcome  to  Summertown,  who  came  forward  cautiously, 
with  the  tail  of  his  eye  on  a  trailing  sword. 

"I  say,  Babs,  Murano  wants  to  know  whether  he's  to  play 
the  jolly  old  march-past." 

"Oh,  yes!    Tell  him  to  begin.     You've  got  some  one  to 


VINDICATION  213 

take  down  to  supper?  Good  boy!  Will  you  lead  off?  I'm 
not  going  down." 

Summertown's  sword  flashed  to  the  salute  and  rattled 
clumsily  back  into  its  scabbard.  He  returned  to  the  orches- 
tra, and  Loring,  after  a  survey  of  the  room  to  find  his  part- 
ner, followed  quickly  after  him.  Oakleigh  laid  his  hand  per- 
suasively on  Barbara's  wrist  and  lowered  his  voice. 

"Your  ball's  been  such  an  astounding  success  that  I  hope 
you're  not  going  to  spoil  it  for  the  sake  of  a  quarrel  with 
Jim." 

Barbara  pressed  his  hand  gently. 

"Dear  George !  I'm  so  fond  of  you !  You  always  speak 
with  the  sweet  reasonableness  of  a  man  with  numberless 
troublesome  little  brothers  and  sisters.  Don't  worry  about 
me !  It  may  be  a  wrong-headed  sort  of  pride,  but,  when 
I've  asked  a  man  for  a  thing,  I'd  sooner  starve  than  take  it 
from  anybody  else." 

Over  the  drone  of  voices  came  the  tap  of  the  leader's 
baton.  George  shuffled  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  hurried  away  with  a  lop-sided 
smile.  The  middle  of  the  room  quickly  cleared  until  Bar- 
bara was  left  by  herself,  with  the  procession  pressed  in 
twos  by  the  walls.  As  the  first  chord  was  struck,  Summer- 
town  called  out : 

"Once  round  and  then  down,  Babs?" 

"Oh,  twice,  I  think,"  she  called  back.  "I  want  to  see  you 
all." 

As  the  couples  moved  forward,  she  retreated  to  an  arm- 
chair on  a  dais  by  the  door,  smiling  down  on  them  and  re- 
turning their  bows.  There  was  a  stiff  nod  from  her  father, 
walking  with  Lady  Maitland,  and  a  sweet,  perplexed  smile 
from  her  mother,  who  was  with  Lord  Poynter.  Oakleigh, 
with  the  Duchess  of  Ross  on  his  arm,  again  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  but  she  had  little  attention  to  spare  for  him ;  im- 


2i4  LADY  LILITH 

mediately  behind,  Violet  Hunter-Oakleigh  was  walking  with 
Val  Arden. 

Barbara  looked  quickly  round  the  room,  and,  as  the  pro- 
cession completed  its  first  circuit,  Loring  came  up  and  stood 
beside  her. 

"I  told  Violet  it  was  your  birthday,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"And  she  let  you  go  ?    I  told  you  she  would !" 

"Oh,  no  one's  likely  to  fight  over  my  body !  And  Violet's 
too  well-bred  to  make  even  a  veiled  scene.  Besides,  I  think 
she  understood — to  the  uttermost  farthing." 

"Then  there's  not  the  least  need  for  you  to  be  grumpy. 
Sit  down  on  the  arm  of  my  chair,  but  don't  topple  me  over. 
Have  you  ever  seen  anything  quite  so  grotesque  as  poor 
Johnnie  Carstairs?  In  case  you  don't  know,  he's  supposed 
to  represent  Danton." 

"I  daresay.  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  Johnnie  Carstairs. 
Barbara,  I've  had  enough  of  these  antics." 

He  stood  stiffly  at  a  distance,  towering  over  her  and  re- 
fusing to  see  the  hand  that  invited  him  to  her  chair. 

"Jim,  are  you  angry  with  me?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 
"Remember,  you  challenged  me ;  you  ought  to  take  a  beat- 
ing in  good  part." 

"Oh,  I  don't  greatly  care  how  you  behave  to  me,  but  I 
resent  being  made  an  instrument  of  rudeness  to  others. 
You've  got  to  apologize  to  Violet." 

"For  giving  her  Val  Arden  instead  of  you  for  a  partner? 
My  dear,  you're  about  equally  tiresome  in  different  ways, 
but  Val  is  far  more  amusing.  I  rather  expect  Violet  to 
come  up  and  thank  me.  Do  you  like  to  challenge  me  over 
that  ?" 

"I've  no  doubt  that,  if  I  challenged  you  to  play  leap-frog 
with  Murano,  you'd  do  it.  I  don't  challenge  you  to  do  any- 
thing." 

Barbara  laughed  softly. 

"Is  my  impetuous  cousin  learning  prudence?    Jim,  you're 


VINDICATION  215 

a  dreadful  old  blusterer !  From  the  distant  security  of 
Surinam  you  can  be  valiant — and  hideously  cruel — Oh,  yes, 
I've  got  a  memory — like  other  people — and  a  skin  to  be 
flayed — like  other  people — and  feelings  to  be  hurt — like 
other  people.  And  it  hurts  to  be  hit  from  behind  when 
you're  down — and  hit  by  your  own  family.  You're  not  so 
valiant  at  close  quarters — either  three  weeks  ago  or  to- 
night." 

The  tail  of  the  procession  was  drawing  near,  and  she  rose 
and  stood  ready  to  fall  in. 

"I  didn't  send  that  cable  to  hurt  you  particularly,"  said 
Loring.  "I  was  so  disgusted  that  I  didn't  want  to  have  you 
inside  the  house." 

"Yet  I'm  always  coming  to  lunch  and  dinner — even  to 
breakfast  occasionally." 

"Yes,  your  mother  interceded  for  you.  It  won't  work  a 
second  time.  Please  understand  that  you  are  not  a  persona 
grata  at  my  house." 

Barbara  laughed  mischievously  and  then  became  men- 
acingly emphatic. 

"If  that's  another  challenge,  my  impetuous  cousin  doesn't 
seem  to  have  learned  prudence !  Jim,  as  a  rule  I  don't  inter- 
fere with  you,  and,  if  you  won't  interfere  with  me,  there's 
no  need  for  us  to  quarrel.  You  were  good  enough  to  call 
me  a  devil  the  other  day;  well,  if  you  want  your  quarrel, 
you  shall  have  it.  But  you'll  be  beaten.  I've  beaten  you  to- 
night, I've  beaten  father.  I've  won.  And  I've  won  because 
I  go  straight  ahead  and,  when  I  threaten  a  thing,  I  do  it. 
Men  seem  only  to  bluster.  You.  And  father.  You  all 
think  you  can  bully  me.  A  man  once  said  to  me  that,  when 
I  became  engaged,  he'd  send  all  good  wishes  or  something — 
and  a  dog-whip  to  my  husband  as  a  wedding-present." 

"Jack  Waring  said  that." 

"Did  he  tell  you?    When?" 


2i6  LADY  LILITH 

"I've  forgotten.  We've  discussed  you  more  than  once,  and 
I've  given  him  a  very  candid  opinion  of  you." 

Barbara  tossed  her  head,  but  her  eyes  were  enquiring. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Oh,  it  varies  from  time  to  time,  as  you  shew  yourself 
in  different  lights.  Until  this  evening  I  didn't  fully  appre- 
ciate how  vindictive  you  could  be." 

"And  you're  going  to  add  that — with  two  more  strokes  of 
your  delicate  brush?  I'm  afraid  Jack  thinks  too  highly  of 
me  to  be  convinced  by  your  picture." 

"Well,  I'd  hardly  say  that." 

"He  doesn't  talk  about  dog-whips  any  more.  He  doesn't 
abuse  me  and  bully  me.  It's  no  good,  Jim.  The  moment 
any  one  tries  to  coerce  me — it's  like  slapping  your  hand 
down  on  an  open  wound;  you  set  every  nerve  quivering  in 
rebellion.  If  you  were  gentle  and  kind  .  .  .  George  Oak- 
leigh  was  charming  to  me  after  you'd  gone ;  I'd  have  done 
anything  for  him.  I'd  do  anything  for  you,  if  you  behaved 
like  that.  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you  or  with  any  one ; 
you'd  find  me  great  fun,  if  you'd  only  be  friends.  Fancy 
going  on  like  this — and  on  my  birthday,  too !" 

"After  to-night  I  have  no  wish  to  be  friends." 

For  an  instant  her  eyes  narrowed  and  her  lips  hardened 
in  a  thin  straight  line.  Then  she  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Well,  for  to-night  at  least  let's  keep  up  appearances !" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE 

"And  some  say,  that  it  was  at  that  time  Pyrrhus  answered  one, 
•who  rejoiced  with  him  for  the  victory  they  had  won:  If  we  win 
another  of  the  price,  quoth  he,  we  are  utterly  undone." 

PLUTARCH  :     "PYRRHUS." 

THE  season  ended  in  a  riot  of  sound  and  colour  before 
Jack  received  his  promised  report  on  the  "Children's  Party." 
In  the  last  week  of  July  Bertrand  Oakleigh  gave  a  dinner  in 
Princes'  Gardens  to  celebrate  Deryk  Lancing's  engagement 
to  Mrs.  Dawson  and  Loring's  to  Miss  Hunter-Oakleigh.  It 
was  Jack's  first  public  appearance  outside  a  club  since  the 
Ross  House  ball,  and  he  was  riddled  with  questions  by  his 
friends,  who  wanted  to  know  whether  he  had  been  ill  and, 
if  not,  why  he  had  been  in  hiding  for  two  months.  Before 
dinner  began,  he  escaped  into  a  corner  and  asked  if  there 
was  any  hope  of  seeing  Loring  privately  before  he  went  to 
Monmouthshire. 

"I  should  like  a  talk  with  you  some  time,"  he  added. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  would,"  Loring  answered,  smiling  a 
little  wistfully.  "I'm  taking  Vi  down  immediately  after 
lunch  to-morrow,  but,  if  you  care  to  come  round  to-night 

?  We'll  get  away  as  soon  as  we  can,  and,  after  I've 

taken  her  home,  I'm  at  your  service  for  as  long  as  you  like." 

"Th?nks.  I'll  be  at  your  place  between  half-past  eleven 
and  twelve.  When  are  you  going  to  be  married?" 

"At  the  beginning  of  September,  if  there's  no  hitch.  I  see 
from  to-night's  papers  that  there's  every  possibility  of  a  row 

MI 


•a'i8  LADY  LILITH 

betv/een  Austria  and  Servia,  which  is  a  bore,  because  we 
wanted  to  spend  our  honeymoon  in  Dalmatia." 

When  Loring  entered  his  library  at  midnight,  Jack  was 
contentedly  smoking  a  cigar  and  looking  at  a  richly  illus- 
trated book  on  trout-flies.  Closing  the  book,  he  accepted 
a  brandy  and  soda  and  took  up  his  stand  by  the  fire-place. 

"I  heard  you  say  you  were  giving  a  party  at  Chepstow," 
he  began.  "I  was  wondering  whether  Babs  was  going." 

"Allowing  for  her  rather  erratic  temperament,  I  should 
say  'yes.'  I  didn't  want  her,  but  she's  invited  herself." 
Loring  described  the  'Children's  Party,'  ending,  "After  that, 
I  decided  to  have  no  more  to  do  with  her,  but  I  was  reckon- 
ing without  Vi.  As  soon  as  the  engagement  was  announced, 
Barbara  called  and  virtually  persuaded  her  that  she'd  ar- 
ranged the  whole  thing  by  inviting  us  both  to  her  ball  and 
opening  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  I  was  in  love.  I  wasn't  in 
the  mood  then  to  quarrel  with  my  worst  enemy,  so  I  said 
she  could  come.  .  .  .  Jack,  have  you  seen  or  heard  any- 
thing of  her  lately?" 

"Not  since  Ross  House.     What's  she  been  doing?" 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular.  She's  won  her  laurels,  and 
there's  no  temptation.  When  all's  said  and  done,  the 
Children's  Party  was  a  big  idea.  She's  made  a  unique  posi- 
tion for  herself;  there's  no  one  of  her  age,  there's  not  an 
unmarried  girl  in  England,  who  can  compete  with  her — my 
sister.  Amy,  Phyllis  Knightrider,  Sally  Farwell,  even  Sonia, 
who  makes  the  running  for  her;  there  are  precious  few 
married  women,  even  among  the  political  lot  and  semi-pub- 
lic hostesses,  who  can  touch  her;  and,  when  it  conies  to  a 
tussle  between  a  girl  of  twenty-one  and  a  woman  like  Har- 
riet Pebbleridge,  who's  as  solid  and  well-established  as  the 
Nelson  Column,  it's  Barbara  who  wins.  I'm  told  she's  had 
a  perfect  crop  of  invitations  to  become  visitor  or  patroness 
or  vice-chairman  of  different  things;  she  rules  over  com- 
mittees on  anything  from  a  national  theatre  to  an  art  guild 


THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE       219 

— and  does  it  uncommon  well,  I  believe.  .  .  .  How  do  you 
stand  with  her  now  ?  You're  very  likely  to  meet,  if  you  pay 
your  annual  visit  to  Raglan." 

"That's  why  I  asked.    I  want  to," 

Loring  was  conscious  that  he  had  been  talking  rather 
volubly  to  postpone  what  he  knew  Jack  had  come  there  to 
discuss ;  inevitably  advice  would  have  to  be  given,  an 
opinion  expressed,  responsibility  shouldered. 

"Apart  from  a  formal  invitation,  she's  made  no  effort  to 
meet  you?  Jack,  I  wonder  whether  she's  been  playing  the 
game  with  you.  It's  incomprehensible  to  me  that  a  girl 
should  let  you  get  to  the  point  of  proposing  and  then  fall 
back  on  something  that's  either  non-essential  or  else  so  im- 
portant that  she  ought  to  have  warned  you  beforehand." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  rather  biassed  against  poor  Barbara." 

Four  years  earlier,  Loring  knew  that  he  would  have  been 
as  immovable,  if  any  one  had  suggested  that  Sonia  had  a 
blemish.  Oakleigh  had  tried  and  failed;  but  he  was  right 
in  trying.  .  .  . 

"If  you've  said  anything  that's  rankled.  .  .  .  She's  vin- 
dictive, as  she  s'hewed  by  making  a  scene  over  the  cable 
episode  twelve  months  later.  And  she's  full  of  mischief. 
And  you,  who  take  things  rather  seriously,  probably  don't 
appreciate  that  nothing  matters  to  her  except  the  moment — 
and  her  vanity.  In  effect  the  only  thing  she  could  find  to 
say  about  you  that  night  was  that  she'd  cured  you  of  criti- 
cizing her  and  talking  about  dog-whips.  You've  not  seen 
her  for  a  couple  of  months;  why  not  wait  a  bit  longer?  As 
I  told  you  months  ago  in  this  room,  if  she  wants  you,  she'll 
contrive  to  meet  you  in  some  way." 

"With  her  vanity?" 

"Yes,  if  she  cares  for  you  more  than  for  her  vanity.  You 
see  that  I  can't  very  well  keep  her  away  from  Chepstow, 
but  I  think  you'd  be  wise  to  postpone  your  visit  to  Raglan." 

The  book  of  trout-flies  was  becoming  irksome.     Jack 


220  LADY  LILITH 

lifted  it  from  his  knees  and  restored  it  to  its  shelf.  Then 
he  ranged  for  a  moment  in  front  of  the  glazed  cases,  read- 
ing the  titles  and  whistling  to  himself  between  his  teeth. 

"It's  too  late.  I've  taken  the  plunge,"  he  said  at  last, 
without  turning  round.  "I  don't  propose  to  discuss  it  with 
you,  Jim;  but  I  shall  certainly  come  to  your  party,  and  the 
only  thing  I  ask  you  to  do  is  not  to  tell  Babs  I'm  coming. 
I  want  to  pick  up  the  swords  exactly  where  we  dropped 
them.  You've  nothing  more  to  tell  me  about  her?  I've 
been  kept  on  short  commons  of  news  lately." 

The  last  few  days  had  been  so  crowded  with  his  own  new 
happiness  that  Loring  had  lost  count  of  time;  he  had  for- 
gotten that  everybody  else  was  not  standing  still;  he  had 
almost  forgotten  that  the  world  held  any  one  but  Violet 
and  him. 

"I — wish — to — God  you  hadn't  done  it,"  he  cried  in  spite 
of  himself. 

"There  was  no  point  in  waiting." 

"And  if  you're  wrong?" 

"But  I'm  not." 

Jack's  face,  as  he  turned  from  the  books,  was  composed 
and  assured. 

"She  never  promised  to  marry  you,  if  you  did  become  a 
Catholic,"  Loring  persisted.  "You're  banking  so  fright- 
fully on  some  mysterious  instinct." 

"I'm  as  certain  of  her  as  you  are  of  Miss  Hunter-Oak- 
leigh." 

"I  was  certain  of  Sonia  four  years  ago.  //  you're 
wrong  ?" 

Jack  was  silent  for  many  moment  before  answering. 

"Well,  she  and  you  and  I  shall  know  about  it;  and  none 
of  us  will  have  much  interest  in  talking  about  it.  ...  For 
the  rest — well,  my  poor  family  will  be  spared  a  nasty  jar." 

"You  haven't  told  them  yet?" 


THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE       221 

"No,  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  I'd  got  something  to  shew 
for  my  apparent  lapse  from  sanity." 

When  they  parted,  it  was  Jack  who  went  to  bed  with  a 
tolerably  tranquil  mind  and  Loring  who  first  tramped  the 
library  like  a  caged  beast  and  then  put  on  his  hat  and 
wandered  aimlessly  into  the  streets.  He  was  no  nearer 
conviction  when  Lady  Knightrider  called  next  morning  to 
warn  him  that  there  had  been  some  unexplained  friction  be- 
tween Jack  and  Barbara  earlier  in  the  season  and  to  ask 
whether  it  was  politic  for  them  to  meet  at  Chepstow. 

"Jack  knows  she's  going  to  be  with  us,"  was  all  that  he 
could  answer.  "He  asked  specially;  he's  very  anxious  to 
meet  her  again." 

"Oh,  well !  .  .  .  I  only  wanted  to  be  sure  that  there  was 
no  unpleasantness." 

"Unpleasantness  ?" 

Loring  laughed  incredulously ;  but,  when  his  aunt  was 
gone  and  he  returned  to  his  letters,  the  word  echoed  mad- 
deningly. 

As  Jack  had  asked  that  Barbara  should  not  be  warned 
in  advance  of  their  meeting,  the  Chepstow  party  had  to  be 
handled  strategically  at  Paddington.  Lady  Knightrider  and 
Phyllis,  Charles  Framlingham  and  Jack  were  in  a  reserved 
carriage  at  the  back  of  the  train,  and  Barbara  was  deftly 
flanked  by  an  obscuring  bodyguard  consisting  of  Arden, 
Deganway,  four  maids  and  a  footman.  Whatever  the  out- 
come of  their  meeting,  her  sense  of  the  dramatic  would 
have  been  excited  if  she  had  known  that  Jack  and  she 
were  in  different  parts  of  the  same  train,  travelling  to  the 
end  of  England  for  the  last  round  in  their  long  contest. 
For  himself,  Loring  only  wished  that  he  could  get  rid  of 
Barbara  and  of  her  elaborate  atmosphere  of  mystery  and 
intrigue;  if  she  decided  to  marry  Jack,  he  would  rather 
not  have  it  said  by  the  Warings  that  he  had  abetted  their 
son  in  a  course  which  they  would  never  condone:  if  there 


222  LADY  LILITH 

were  any  kind  of  unpleasantness,  he  would  sooner  have  it 
happen  elsewhere  than  at  Loring  Castle.  .  .  .  And  in  the 
meantime  Barbara  sat  in  her  corner,  sparring  impartially 
with  Deganway  and  Arden. 

It  seemed  for  a  moment  that  he  might  get  his  wish  and 
avert  the  meeting.  Lady  Knightrider  wrote  two  days  later 
to  ask  whether  the  arrangements  for  the  ball  held  good. 
Her  son  had  written  from  London  to  say  that  "a  man  in 
the  War  Office"  did  not  see  how  hostilities  could  be  pre- 
vented. The  word  was  to  be  interpreted  in  its  widest  sense ; 
an  outbreak  between  Austria  and  Servia  was  inevitable,  and 
it  was  no  less  inevitable  that  Russia  should  come  to  the 
support  of  Servia  and  Germany  to  the  aid  of  Austria. 
Then  France  would  throw  in  her  lot  with  Russia,  and  Great 
Britain  with  France.  The  sequence  was  automatic  and  in- 
evitable. The  diplomatists  might  possibly  find  a  safety- 
valve,  but,  unless  they  did,  there  would  be  war,  "and  that," 
proclaimed  Victor  Knightrider,  "is  where  we  come  in." 

"It's  all  so  unnecessary  and  so  dreadful"  wrote  his 
mother,  "that  one  feels  almost  wicked  to  talk  of  things  like 
dancing  until  we  see  what  is  going  to  happen.  Of  course, 
you  understand  that,  if  the  ball  takes  place,  I  shall  come; 
I'm  so  happy  about  you  and  dear  Violet  that  nothing  would 
keep  me  away  from  a  gathering  like  this.  But,  if  you  de- 
cide to  postpone  it  till  a  less  stormy  day  .  .  ." 

Loring  debated  with  himself  and  with  his  mother,  before 
deciding  to  leave  his  arrangements  unchanged.  No  one 
could  pretend  to  be  satisfied  with  the  political  outlook,  but 
war  on  Victor  Knightrider's  all-embracing  scale  was  incon- 
ceivable. 

"Unless  therms  any  change  for  the  worse  before  Friday," 
he  wrote  in  reply,  "I  propose  to  go  on." 

The  papers,  morning  and  evening,  confirmed  'him  in  his 
optimism.  A  world  at  war  had  only  to  be  imagined  in  order 
to  be  dismissed.  It  was  not  until  the  late  afternoon  before 


THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE       223 

the  ball  that  George  Oakleigh,  O'Rane  and  Summertown, 
deriving  their  information  from  different  sources  and 
speaking  with  different  degrees  of  conviction  and  gravity, 
persuaded  him  that,  even  if  the  incredible  did  not  take 
place,  at  least  a  great  many  intelligent  observers  thought 
that  it  would.  At  Raglan  no  one  shared  Lady  Knightrider's 
alarms.  Phyllis  and  Framlingham  were  as  much  resolved 
not  to  be  cheated  of  the  ball  as  Jack  was  determined  to  meet 
Barbara.  He  assured  his  hostess  that  Victor  was  only  try- 
ing to  make  her  flesh  creep.  For  two  days  Framlingham 
and  Phyllis  played  tennis  or  motored  together,  and  for  two 
days  Jack  walked  up  and  down  one  bank  of  the  stream 
that  bordered  the  Knightrider  property,  meditatively 
thrashing  the  water  and  smoking  one  pipe  after  another. 
His  luncheon  he  carried  with  him  when  he  left  the  house 
after  breakfast;  on  both  days  Lady  Knightrider  drove 
through  the  woods  in  her  pony-carriage  with  a  tea-basket 
and  drove  back  again  because  she  lacked  courage  to  ask 
him  about  Barbara. 

On  the  morning  of  the  ball,  the  optimism  of  the  preceding 
days  declined  sharply.  The  news  could  hardly  be  called 
worse,  because  the  papers  contained  nothing  but  the  death- 
rattle  of  the  Buckingham  Palace  Conference.  But  a  pre- 
sentiment of  evil  sprang  up  and  was  fed  by  crazy  invention 
and  baseless  gossip.  Victor  wrote  again  with  extracts  from 
the  prophecies  of  two  journalists,  the  private  secretary  to 
a  minister  and  the  same  "man  in  the  War  Office."  Jack 
received  a  gloomy  letter  from  Eric  Lane,  and  Framling- 
ham was  warned  to  keep  himself  within  reach  of  a  tele- 
graph office. 

"It's  too  late  for  Jim  to  stop  the  thing  now,"  said  Jack. 

"He'd  have  been  wiser  to  stop  it  at  the  beginning  of  the 
week.  Of  course,  he  can't  be  expected  to  feel  quite  as  I  do. 
If  we  go  to  war,  the  Guards  will  be  sent  out  before  any  one. 
And  that  means  Victor." 


224  I.ADY  LILITH 

It  was  tea-time  before  she  desisted  from  the  last  of  her 
vacillations,  and  the  car  was  ordered  to  the  door.  Wrapped 
in  coats  and  dust-rugs,  they  drove  through  Raglan  in  blaz- 
ing sunlight  and  reached  Loring  Castle  as  the  first  stars 
appeared.  The  men  were  still  in  the  long  banqueting-hall, 
and  Lady  Knightrider  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  to  ask 
whether  she  might  drink  Jim's  health.  Jack  stayed  behind 
in  the  hall,  trying  to  get  his  bearings  in  a  strange  house.  A 
sound  of  voices  came  to  him  through  an  open  door  on  the 
opposite  side,  and,  without  waiting  to  take  off  his  coat,  he 
walked  on  tip-toe  and  looked  in. 

Barbara  was  standing  by  the  fire-place,  a  coffee-cup  in 
her  hand,  talking  to  Violet  Hunter-Oakleigh.  Slender  and 
tall,  a  study  in  black  and  white,  ghostly  and  arresting,  she 
might  have  incarnated  herself  from  an  Aubrey  Beardsley 
drawing.  Her  dress  was  raven's  wing  and  silver,  not  unlike 
the  one  that  she  had  worn  at  Croxton ;  there  was  a  gleaming 
band  around  her  hair,  and  silver  heels  to  her  shoes.  As  he 
looked  at  her,  Jack  remembered  Loring's  phrase  in  describ- 
ing a  distant  view  of  Sonia  at  the  Coronation,  after  their 
engagement  had  been  broken  off.  He  felt  that  same  "tug 
at  the  heart"  and  told  himself  that  he  must  be  steady; 
though  Barbara  did  not  expect  him,  he  felt  sure  that  she 
would  betray  little  surprise  and  no  embarrassment. 

Lady  Loring  was  seated  near  the  door,  and,  as  they  shook 
hands,  Barbara  turned  and  caught  sight  of  him.  He  could 
not  see  whether  her  expression  changed,  but  in  a  moment 
she  had  left  Violet  and  was  coming  across  the  room  to 
him. 

"I  never  expected  to  see  you  here !"  she  exclaimed,  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  and  watching  him  with  eyes  that  were 
unreflecting  pools  of  deep  blue. 

"I'm  staying  with  Lady  Knightrider  at  Raglan,  and  she 
brought  me  over,"  he  explained. 


THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE       225 

"I  thought  you  must  have  gone  abroad  or  something. 
You've  quite  disappeared  lately." 

"I've  been  rather  busy." 

"Xo  one  seemed  to  know  what  had  happened  to  you." 

As  Lady  Loring  moved  away,  he  examined  her  critically. 

"You're  looking  very  well,  Babs.  And  I've  heard  a  great 
deal  about  you." 

"You  always  had  a  talent  for  that,"  she  laughed.  "And 
for  commenting  very  freely  on  what  you  heard.  What  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself?" 

"I'll  tell  you  at  supper,  if  you'll  consent  to  have  supper 
with  me." 

He  was  speaking  in  the  tone  and  terms  that  he  had  used 
in  the  old  days — before  the  Ross  House  ball,  before  the 
disastrous  Easter  gathering  at  Crawleigh. 

"I've  promised  it  to  Val  Arden,"  she  answered  in  the 
same  measure.  "And  two  other  people,  now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it." 

"Well,  promise  me — and  keep  the  promise." 

"But  why  should  I  disappoint  them?" 

"I  feel  you  owe  it  to  me,  after  we've  not  met  for  so 
long." 

Barbara  could  not  wholly  hide  from  him  that  she  was 
puzzled. 

"I'll— see,"  she  said. 

"You  used  to  be  more  gracious ;  you  used  to  say,  'Yes — 
if  you  want  me  to.'  " 

"That  was  in  the  old  days,"  she  answered  quickly  and 
saw,  too  late,  that  she  had  needlessly  raised  the  temperature 
of  the  discussion. 

"Nothing's  happened  to  change  it,  I  hope,"  said  Jack 
easily. 

After  the  first  embarrassment  of  the  meeting,  he  felt  that 
he  was  holding  his  own  and  that  Barbara  was  mystified 
and  uncomfortable. 


226  LADY  LILITH 

"Jack,  you've  not  forgotten  our  last  meeting?"  she 
asked. 

"It  was  at  Ross  House.  We  had  supper  together 
then " 

"Well,  you  don't  want  to — repeat  it,  do  you?"  she  asked 
deliberately. 

"I  want  to  have  supper  with  you  again." 

She  was  undecided  whether  to  be  distressed  or  in- 
trigued. Jack  could  always  arouse  her  combativeness  by 
criticizing,  or — as  now — by  coolly  taking  her  for  granted. 
But  she  did  not  want  to  repeat  the  Ross  House  scene.  He 
had  an  unpleasant  faculty  of  frightening  her — and  yet  to 
be  frightened  by  him  was  not  wholly  unpleasant.  .  .  . 

"You  can  find  some  one  else  far  more  amusing,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"I  don't  even  know  who's  here." 

"But  you  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  be  here." 

"I  asked  Jim — five  days  ago.  ...  I  came  straight  in  here 
without  even  taking  off  my  coat.  Barbara,  may  I  have  sup- 
per with  you  ?" 

Insensibility,  which  was  his  chief  characteristic,  counted 
for  much.  A  brazen  desire,  which  she  could  understand, 
to  treat  the  Ross  House  meeting  as  if  it  had  never  occurred 
might  count  for  more.  Barbara  would  sooner  have  bandied 
epigrams  with  Val  Arden  or  flirted  with  his  supplanter,  but 
she  felt  that  she  would  be  unable  to  sleep  until  she  knew 
why  Jack  had  disappeared  for  more  than  two  months  and 
then  followed  her  to  a  remote  castle  in  Monmouthshire — 
and  why  he  came  to  her,  like  a  needle  to  a  magnet,  with- 
out waiting  to  get  rid  of  his  scarf  and  coat. 

"I'll  have  supper  with  you,  if  you  want  me  to,"  she  said. 

A  sound  of  voices  behind  him  warned  Jack  that  the  men 
were  coming  out  of  the  banqueting-hall,  and,  as  he  hurried 
to  get  rid  of  his  overcoat  before  any  of  them  could  grow 
inquisitive  about  his  surreptitious  visit  to  the  drawing-room, 


THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE       227 

the  doors  were  flung  open  and  the  first  cars  rolled  into 
sight.  Loring  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar  and  ran 
upstairs  to  help  his  mother  receive  their  guests.  A  group 
of  men  gathered  round  the  open  fire-place,  pulling  on  their 
gloves  and  waiting  for  the  rest  of  their  parties.  Jack  stood 
with  them  for  a  few  minutes,  wondering  what  to  do  with 
himself  until  supper.  He  was  in  no  mood  to  dance  or  to 
debate  the  possibility  of  war  or  to  chatter  about  Jim's  en- 
gagement or  to  discuss  what  he  meant  to  do  during  the 
vacation.  He  could  only  think  of  one  thing  at  a  time  and 
he  had  not  determined  whether  they  were  to  publish  the 
news  then  and  there  or  to  wait  until  they  were  back  in 
London.  He  would  have  liked  to  proclaim  it  at  supper  and 
to  see  every  man  and  woman  rising  to  drink  their  health, 
but  he  decided,  on  reflection,  that  he  must  talk  to  Lord 
Crawleigh  before  making  the  announcement. 

Phyllis  Knightrider  and  her  mother  came  out  of  the 
drawing-room  and  went  upstairs.  He  followed  them  and, 
in  duty,  asked  for  a  dance ;  but,  as  soon  as  it  was  over,  he 
escaped  to  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  castle  and  sat  down 
by  himself  as  far  as  possible  from  the  door.  Barbara's 
curiosity  was  piqued;  and,  if  he  met  her  before  supper, 
she  would  disturb  him  with  artless  little  questions  instead 
of  waiting  to  hear  the  whole  story.  Yet,  if  she  would 
trouble  to  think,  there  was  no  room  for  curiosity. 

"You  are  dancing?  No?"  said  Val  Arden  behind  him. 
"One  can  offer  you  the  half  of  a  tolerable  lair,  not  too  near 
the  music  and  adequately  provisioned." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  recess  overlooking  the  ball-room  and 
waved  his  hands  towards  two  armchairs  and  a  table  with 
cigars,  coffee  and  liqueurs. 

"Aren't  you  dancing  either?"  Jack  asked,  as  he  sat  down. 

"These  young  women  may  be  less  energetic  in  three,  four 
hours'  time.  One  is  waiting  for  the  requisite  mood  of 
abandonment.  One  rejoices  to  meet  you  again  after  this 


228  LADY  LILITH 

long  time,  even  at  the  cost  of  losing  Lady  Lilith's  compan- 
ionship at  supper." 

"Well,  I  think  I  deserve  it,"  Jack  answered.  "I  haven't 
seen  her  for  months." 

"She  is  a  little  difficile  to-night.  'Out  of  temper'  would 
be  too  strong  a  phrase.  But,  you  may  observe,  even  the  ur- 
bane Summertown  is  out  of  favour." 

Barbara  swept  by  them,  as  he  spoke,  and  both  heard  her 
exclaiming  petulantly,  "You're  very  tiresome  to-night!  I 
shan't  dance  with  you  any  more."  Both  saw  them  parting 
at  the  door;  Summertown  laughed  imperturbably,  Barbara 
ran  away  and  did  not  appear  again  until  the  beginning  of 
the  next  dance. 

She  had  found  time  to  quarrel  with  four  of  her  partners 
by  eleven  o'clock  and  was  prepared  for  a  fifth  and  all-aton- 
ing quarrel  with  Jack  as  soon  as  he  claimed  her  for  supper. 
The  party  at  Loring  Castle  had  been  delightful,  until  he 
came;  for  the  last  two  months  in  London  she  had  felt  like 
a  released  prisoner.  Now  the  shock  of  meeting  him  again 
had  spoiled  her  evening;  and,  when  she  wanted  to  enjoy 
herself,  she  could  only  worry  her  brain  to  find  out  why  he 
had  come.  In  the  Ross  House  encounter  she  liked  to  think 
that,  by  all  public  tests,  she  had  beaten  him ;  but  her  victory 
brought  her  little  satisfaction.  When  she  reconstructed  the 
scene,  something  that  was  suspiciously  like  conscience  dis- 
turbed her.  To  pretend  that  she  could  not  marry  him  be- 
cause he  was  not  a  Catholic  was  more  serviceable  than 
true.  And  to  pretend  that  religion  meant  anything  to  her 
was  almost  blasphemous,  the  sort  of  thing  that  might  bring 
her  months  of  ill-luck.  Any  other  excuse  would  have  been 
better,  safer;  at  least  she  would  not  be  inviting  a  judgement 
on  herself.  Some  things  did  undoubtedly  make  Providence 
angry;  and  she  had  thought  seriously  of  writing  to  Jack 
and  saying  that  religion  was  not  the  stumbling-block,  that 
she  had  been  flustered  until  she  did  not  know  what  she  was 


THE  LAUREL  AND  THE  ROSE       229 

saying.  But  then  he  would  start  again  from  the  begin- 
ning. .  .  . 

He  had  frightened  her  at  Ross  House  with  a  simple  and 
massive  resolve  to  get  his  own  way;  and  it  was  fear  rather 
than  curiosity  or  annoyance  which  was  spoiling  her  evening 
for  her.  First  he  would  arrange  a  meeting,  then  discharge 
a  proposal,  then  retire  for  more  ammunition,  then  arrange 
another  meeting,  and  then  .  .  .  She  felt  sure  that  he  was 
going  to  propose  to  her  again.  ...  It  was  so  characteristic 
of  his  methods  that  he  should  come  early,  engage  her  for 
supper — and  then  disappear.  If  she  "forgot"  her  promise 
and  supped  with  some  one  else,  if  she  went  to  her  room  and 
locked  the  door,  he  would  only  wait  until  she  reappeared 
or  else  engineer  a  meeting  in  Scotland  or  the  Isle  of  Wight; 
he  could  not  be  avoided  indefinitely. 

Loring  found  her  standing  by  herself  at  an  open  window 
and  told  her  that  she  was  looking  tired. 

"Supper's  just  starting,"  he  added,  and  she  felt  herself 
wincing.  "I  needn't  ask  whether  you've  got  a  partner  for 
it." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  any  supper,"  she  answered, 
looking  round  over  her  shoulder.  There  was  no  sign  of 
Jack,  but  punctually  at  the  first  note  of  the  next  dance  he 
appeared  from  space  and  claimed  her. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT 

"And  I, — what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see: 

What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess : 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me? 
No  hero,  I  confess. 

Tis  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own.  .  .  ." 

RORERT  BROWNING:    "A  LIGHT  WOMAN." 

"SHALL  we  go  down  before  the  crowd?"  Jack  asked. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  miss  this!"  Barbara  begged.  "'Dixie, 
all  abo-o-ard  for  Dixie!  Dixie!  Take  your  tickets  here 
for  Dixie.' " 

"I've  found  rather  a  good  table  in  the  musicians'  gallery/' 
he  confided.  "If  we  go  now,  we  shall  get  it  to  ourselves." 

"Let's  go  downstairs  like  everybody  else,"  Barbara  pro- 
posed hastily.  As  he  revealed  each  new  stage  of  careful 
preparation,  she  dreaded  being  left  alone  with  him.  "Are 
you  very  greedy,  Jack,  or  only  hungry?  I  love  that  one- 
step.  Why  did  you  drag  me  away  in  the  middle?" 

They  entered  the  banqueting-hall  to  the  jig  and  stamp  of 
rag-time  overhead ;  Barbara  was  still  humming,  as  she  drew 
off  her  gloves  and  sat  down  opposite  him  at  a  corner-table. 

"You  ought  to  be  grateful  to  me  for  getting  you  a  table 
before  the  rush  starts.  I  can't  stand  rag-time,  myself.  It's 
killed  decent  dancing.  What  are  you  going  to  eat,  Babs  ?" 

"Oh,  anything."  She  wished  that  the  tables  were  nearer 
together  and  that  the  room  were  fuller.  They  were  re- 
mote enough  for  Jack  to  become  very  confidential,  if  he 
wished;  and  it  was  impossible  to  talk  him  down,  if  he  for- 

230 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         231 

mally  asked  for  five  minutes  of  her  undivided  attention  and 
forbade  interruption.  She  sought  inspiration  in  vain  from 
the  vaulted  roof  and  high-placed  gallery,  the  tattered  stand- 
ards hanging  in  double  row  into  the  middle  of  the  room, 
the  rough  stone  walls  half-covered  with  panelling  and  the 
stained-glass  windows  at  either  end.  To  discuss  architec- 
ture with  Jack  was  unprofitable  at  any  time.  "I  never  ex- 
pected to  sec  you  here,"  she  told  him  again.  "What  have 
you  been  doing  since  last  we  met?" 

"When  did  we  meet  last?"  he  asked  her  once  more,  with 
a  nonchalance  that  made  her  look  at  him  in  amazement. 

"It  was  at  Ross  House,  soon  after  Easter,"  she  answered 
with  rare  precision.  "Don't  you  remember?" 

"Oh,  perfectly.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  you  did.  It  was 
hardly  an  evening  that  I  should  forget  in  a  hurry." 

Barbara  was  frightened  and  relieved  at  the  same  time. 
His  deliberation  and  absence  of  embarrassment  discon- 
certed her,  but,  in  so  far  as  his  manner  was  vaguely  threat- 
ening, she  was  vaguely  comforted.  If  she  wanted  to  punish 
her,  she  was  well  able  to  take  care  of  herself;  and  she 
would  far  sooner  hear  reproaches  than  pleadings,  though 
for  once  she  would  soonest  of  all  be  spared  any  kind  of  al- 
tercation. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  ever  since?"  she  asked 
again. 

"I've  just  been  received  into  your  Church,"  he  answered. 

Overhead  the  music  stopped  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
double  stamp;  it  was  as  though  the  very  orchestra  were 
dumbfounded.  After  a  moment's  clapping,  it  started  again, 
and  Barbara  sat  through  the  encore  with  averted  eyes  and  a 
frown  of  preoccupation,  putting  crumbs  of  bread  into  her 
mouth  and  eating  salmon  which  nauseated  her.  She  was 
conscious  of  mental  cramp — and  of  nothing  else,  save  per- 
haps that  Jack  was  probably  looking  at  her  to  mark  how 
she  received  the  news.  When  the  music  stopped  a  second 


232  LADY  LILITH 

time,  there  came  a  sound  of  voices  from  the  stairs;  and  he 
glanced  apprehensively  over  his  shoulder  as  the  first  couples 
entered  with  flushed  faces,  pulling  off  their  gloves  and 
fanning  themselves. 

"Will  you  marry  me  now,  Babs?"  he  whispered. 

"I— cant!" 

It  was  something  to  find  that  she  could  speak  at  all ;  but, 
if  he  began  arguing,  she  was  helpless.  Rallying  in  des- 
peration, she  beckoned  to  Arden  and  Phyllis  Knightrider. 

"There's  a  table  here,"  she  pointed  out.  "Come  and  sit 
near  me,  Val,  to  shew  that  I'm  forgiven  for  breaking  my 
promise." 

"One  thought  for  a  moment  of  starving  oneself  to  death 
on  your  doorstep  in  alleged  Oriental  fashion,"  drawled 
Arden.  "It  would  have  entailed  distressing  privations, 
however,  and  one  was  persuaded  by  Miss  Knightrider 
against  one's  more  romantic  judgement." 

If  Barbara  could  create  a  diversion,  Jack  determined 
not  to  be  thrown  out  of  his  stride  by  it.  He  began  to  eat 
his  supper  with  a  show  of  relish  which  he  felt  to  be  in- 
congruous after  Barbara's  emphatic  and  unqualified  re- 
fusal. There  was  nothing  else  to  do,  and  it  made  the 
absence  of  conversation  less  marked.  Barbara  had  sent 
her  salmon  away  unfinished  and,  refusing  everything  else, 
was  beginning  to  fidget  with  her  gloves;  but,  if  he  re- 
mained there  all  night,  Jack  was  resolved  to  outstay  Arden 
and  to  keep  Barbara  there  until  she  had  explained  herself. 
In  time  she  allowed  him  to  give  her  some  fruit.  With  every 
new  couple  the  high  babble  of  conversation  and  laughter 
swelled  in  volume  until  they  were  isolated  in  their  corner. 
Behind  the  screen  of  voices  Jack  leaned  forward  and 
touched  her  wrist  until  she  looked  up. 

"You  say  you  can't.     Why  not  ?"  he  asked. 

The  words  and  tone  were  as  she  remembered  them  more 
than  two  months  earlier,  but  this  time  there  was  no  escape. 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         233 

"Because  I'm  not  in  love  with  you." 

She  nerved  herself  to  look  him  in  the  eyes  so  that  he 
must  be  convinced  in  spite  of  himself.  For  a  moment  there 
was  no  change  of  expression;  then,  though  the  grouping 
of  the  features  remained  unaltered,  the  face  seemed  to 
stiffen;  lines  discovered  themselves  from  nose  to  mouth, 
and  the  lips  grew  set  and  thin.  Barbara  gripped  the  seat 
of  her  chair  with  both  hands.  Greater  even  than  fear  was 
respect  for  a  man  who  could  control  himself ;  for  the  first 
time  she  wished  that  she  loved  him,  because  he  was  "bigger" 
— to  use  his  pet  word — than  she  had  thought ;  she  would 
not  mind  telling  him  so,  if  it  would  do  any  good ;  she  would 
not  mind  telling  him  that  he  was  bigger  than  she  was,  but 
nothing  could  do  any  good  now. 

Jack  tried  to  speak,  and  she  saw  that  he  had  to  sip 
champagne  before  the  words  would  come. 

"That  was  not  the  reason  you  gave,"  he  said  at  length. 

"It's  the  true  reason." 

"Then  the  other  was  a  lie?  Jim  thought  it  might  be, 
but  I  said  I  knew  you  too  well  for  that.  Then  you've  been 
lying  to  me  all  along  ?  You  never  intended  to  marry  me  ?" 

"No." 

The  hateful  charge  was  used  as  a  dispassionate  definition. 
Jack  refused  to  grow  angry,  and  Barbara  felt  her  resist- 
ance wearing  itself  out  against  him. 

"Jack " 

He  enjoined  silence  with  the  slightest  movement  of  one 
hand  and  reflected  unhurriedly. 

"You  always  said  that  money  didn't  weigh  with  you.  .  .  . 
I  gave  you  every  chance  of  slipping  in  a  friendly  warn- 
ing. .  .  .  Why  did  you  do  this,  Barbara?  If  you  never 
meant  to  marry  me,  why  did  you  deliberately " 

While  he  continued  to  speak  with  frozen  self-restraint, 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  the  end  of  his  sentence. 

"How  was  I  to  know  ?"  she  interrupted ;  and  there  was  a 


234  LADY  LILITH 

note  of  sincerity  in  her  voice,  for  she  had  never  imagined 
that  he  loved  her  to  the  point  of  perjuring  himself.  "You 
say  you  gave  me  a  chance  of  warning  you.  .  .  .  How  was 
I  to  know?  Up  to  the  end — that  night  at  Ross  House — 
you  were  abusing  me  and  finding  fault  with  me.  You  dared 
to  tell  me  you'd  said  nothing  that  my  father  hadn't  said  a 
hundred  times!  If  you  thought  you'd  changed  me  ... 
You  must  have  been  mad;  I  let  you  abuse  me  because  it 
wasn't  worth  arguing  about,  I  knew  I  was  right,  I've  proved 
I  was  right.  ...  I  know  I  haven't  changed  you  and  I 
never  shall.  You  always  despised  me  so  much,  you  said  I 
was  vulgar,  shallow,  vain,  heartless.  .  .  .  Did  you  expect 
me  to  understand  that  that  was  your  way  of  shewing  that 
you  were  in  love  with  me?" 

Jack  touched  his  lips  with  one  finger. 

"We  needn't  take  the  whole  room  into  our  confidence," 
he  whispered.  "So  this  was  your  revenge?  I  congratulate 
you,  Lady  Barbara.  .  .  .  Or  were  you  convincing  me  of 
my  mistake  ?  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  didn't  see  you 
hadn't  finished  eating." 

He  laid  his  cigarette  beside  his  plate  and  turned  half 
round.  Every  one  else  seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself  pro- 
digiously. Twenty  shrill-voiced  conversations  met  and 
struggled ;  laughter  swelled  and  died  away.  Some  one  pro- 
posed Jim's  health  and  tried  to  coerce  him  into  replying. 
Lady  Loring  appeared  for  a  moment  in  the  musicians'  gal- 
lery, smiled  contentedly  on  her  handiwork  and  withdrew. 
Their  lightness  of  heart  was  hard  to  bear,  and  the  ecstasy 
in  Violet's  eyes  was  insupportable.  Jack  turned  back  to 
his  own  table.  He  was  not  going  to  marry  Barbara ;  if  he 
repeated  it  often  enough,  he  might  come  to  believe  it ;  he 
was  desperately  tired  and  could  not  think  what  to  do  next. 

A  sudden  hush,  followed  by  a  scrape  of  feet  and  the 
creak  of  moving  chairs,  greeted  the  opening  bars  of  a  waltz. 
Plaintive  voices  enquired  for  lost  gloves,  and  in  another 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         235 

minute  Jack  and  Barbara  had  the  room  to  themselves.  She 
gripped  the  chair  harder,  bracing  herself  to  receive  her 
punishment;  and,  as  he  sat  half  asleep,  she  could  have 
complimented  him  on  his  refined  cruelty  in  making  her  wait 
for  it.  Gradually  he  seemed  to  see  that  the  room  had 
emptied,  to  guess  that  she  expected  him  to  speak;  his  ex- 
pression changed,  and,  with  it,  her  own  dumb  readiness 
to  take  whatever  he  might  choose  to  mete  out.  There  was 
still  no  anger,  hardly  even  resentment ;  but  his  mouth  was 
pursed  in  disgust,  as  though  a  toad  had  leaped  on  to  his 
plate.  Barbara  felt  herself  aflame  with  desire  to  justify 
herself. 

"I've  finished  now,  if  you  want  to  smoke,"  she  said. 
"Jack,  I  don't  want  to  reopen  this,  you  must  see  that  it 
would  be  hopeless !  You  disapprove  of  everything  I  do. 
You  may  be  right :  we  won't  discuss  that.  I'm  a  gipsy,  and 
you're — I  don't  know  what  you  are." 

Jack  reminded  himself  again  that  he  was  not  going  to 
marry  Barbara.  For  three  months  and  more  he  had  never 
doubted  it ;  when  Jim  Loring  frowned  and  hesitated  and  let 
fall  apprehensive  uncertainties,  he  had  answered  with  easy 
confidence,  as  though  challenged  to  declare  his  belief  in  the 
solar  system.  Three  minutes,  or  less,  was  a  short  time 
for  readjustment,  but  he  was  beginning  to  repeat  the  sen- 
tence with  his  brain  as  well  as  with  his  lips.  And  so  far 
he  had  not  publicly  disgraced  himself  in  any  way.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  think  we'll  discuss  anything,"  he  said. 

Barbara  moved  her  chair,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice 
it :  he  noticed  nothing,  and  the  silence  was  unendurable. 
She  asked  for  a  cigarette,  and  he  gave  her  one,  silently 
lighting  a  match. 

"I'm — sorry,  Jack,"  she  said  at  last. 

"You're  losing  nothing,"  he  answered. 

"I'm  sorry  for  your  sake." 


236  LADY  LILITH 

"Ah,  you  can't  afford  the  luxury  of  a  conscience,  Lady 
Barbara." 

"I  thought  you  must  have  seen — after  that  night  at  Ross 
House  ..."  she  began  hurriedly,  but  her  voice  and  courage 
died  away.  "Lady"  Barbara  choked  her. 

"You  took  pains  that  I  shouldn't  see.  We  needn't  go 
through  this  again?  I  took  you  at  your  word.  You  sug- 
gested one  obstacle— one  only, — and  I  removed  it." 

As  he  stood  up,  she  saw  him  sway  and  for  the  first  time 
understood  the  size  of  what  she  had  done.  She  and  Jack 
did  not  believe  that  immortal  souls  existed  or  could  be  im- 
perilled, but  if  there  were  a  jealous  God  who  refused  to 
have  His  name  taken  in  vain  .  .  . 

"Jack " 

"Shall  we  go  up-stairs?"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  finished  my  cigarette." 

She  tried  to  speak  again,  but  stopped  at  an  outburst  of 
signing  in  the  hall.  "Geor-gie,  what  did  you  buy,  what  did 
you  buy  for  Maud-ee?"  Summertown  and  Framlingham 
waltzed  into  the  room  and  swung  recklessly  between  the 
tables  to  an  accompaniment  of  falsetto  small-talk.  "Jolly 
floor,  what?  Have  you  been  to  many  floors  this  season?" 
"Oh,  hardly  any,  Miss  Framlingham.  I'm  quite  a  little 
country  mouse.  Here,  I  say,  what's  the  matter  with  this 
table  ?"  Summertown  subsided  by  the  door,  and  Framling- 
ham scoured  the  neighbourhood  for  food  and  drink.  Their 
noise  and  high  spirits  were  disturbing,  but  after  one  im- 
patient glance  over  his  shoulder  Jack  turned  round  and 
looked  at  Barbara.  She  was  sitting  lost  in  thought,  with 
her  chin  on  her  hand,  staring  at  the  bubbles  as  they  rose  in 
her  glass — puzzled  but  at  ease.  The  long,  exacting  season 
had  made  her  more  haggard  than  ever,  but  Jack  had  learned 
to  love  and  yearn  for  this  wan,  fragile  beauty;  her  eyes 
were  bigger  and  darker  than  usual,  and  a  faint  languor 
gave  her  added  dignity.  If  he  went  on  looking  at  her,  Jack 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         237 

felt  that  he  might  strangle  her  in  a  passionate  gust  of 
jealousy  and  self-pity. 

The  horn  of  a  car  sounded  through  the  open  windows, 
and  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Lady  Knightrider  wants  to  leave  early,"  he  said.  "We've 
got  rather  a  long  drive  to  Eaglan." 

"Don't  go  for  a  minute,  Jack.  I've  got  something  to  say 
to  you." 

It  was  that  imperilling  of  soul — if  there  were  souls  and 
if  they  could  be  imperilled.  Reparation  was  needed,  but, 
unless  she  promised  to  marry  him  .  .  .  He  would  hardly 
want  to  marry  her  now.  .  .  . 

"Can  you  spare  me  another  cigarette?"  she  asked. 

He  handed  her  his  case  and  sat  down,  waiting  without  a 
change  of  expression.  Since  he  was  not  going  to  marry 
Barbara,  everything  else  seemed  wonderfully  trivial.  He 
rather  hoped  that  she  was  not  going  to  explain  or  apologize, 
because  he  was  too  tired  for  a  scene,  too  tired  to  argue,  too 
tired  even  to  nod  or  say  "yes"  and  "no"  in  the  right 
place.  .  .  .  There  was  no  point  in  sitting  there,  if  she  had 
nothing  to  say.  And  three  hours  earlier  he  had  decided 
that,  all  things  considered,  it  would  be  more  proper  not  to 
announce  their  engagement  until  he  had  Lord  Crawleigh's 
formal  assent.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  sound  of  other  voices  in  the  hall,  and  George 
Oakleigh  appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  looked  anxiously 
round  the  room  and  pounced  upon  the  bachelor  supper- 
party  at  his  elbow.  After  a  moment's  earnest  whispering, 
Summertown  banged  his  fist  on  the  table  until  the  glasses 
rang. 

"Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,  Hell,"  he  cried.  "One 
good  thing — you're  in  this,  too,  Charles,  my  lad." 

Framlingham  emptied  his  glass  and  refilled  it  unhurriedly. 

"To  declare  war  in  the  middle  of  supper  is  not  the  act 
of  a  gentleman,"  he  pronounced. 


23  8  LADY  LILITH 

The  phrase  drove  away  Jack  mental  drowsiness ;  Barbara 
forgot  that  she  was  even  trying  to  think  of  anything  to 
say;  both  sat  upright.  The  possibility  of  war  had  long 
faded  from  their  minds,  and  they  welcomed  it  as  a  distrac- 
tion. 

"Is  it  declared?"  Jack  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Oakleigh.  "And  we'll  hope  it  won't 
be.  But  things  are  looking  pretty  serious,  and  Summer- 
town's  uncle  has  called  with  a  car  to  fetch  him  back  to 
barracks.  I'm  going  to  mobilize  all  of  our  soldiers,  but  I 
don't  want  any  fuss,  or  we  shall  spoil  Jim's  party.  Help  to 
keep  things  going." 

He  hurried  away,  and  Barbara  looked  blankly  at  Jack. 
"War!"  she  murmured.  He  said  nothing;  but  his  eyes,  dull 
a  moment  before,  were  shining  with  excitement.  He 
looked  at  his  watch  and  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Barbara." 

"But  you're  not  a  soldier !" 

"I  must  get  back  to  London.  I'm  going  to  ask  Summer- 
town  for  a  seat  in  his  car  and  then  I  must  have  a  word 
with  Lady  Knightrider." 

He  hurried  away  with  scant  ceremony,  leaving  Barbara 
standing  by  the  table.  She  began  to  collect  her  gloves  and 
handkerchief,  then  sat  down  and  tried  to  think  dispassion- 
ately. It  did  not  matter  that  she  was  beaten  and  that  he 
could  add  "liar"  and  "coquette"  to  his  other  charges.  He 
would  never  tell  any  one  how  she  had  behaved.  .  .  .  But 
he  had  run  away  without  punishing  her,  and  she  wanted 
to  be  punished.  Punished  by  him;  she  could  not  hand  her- 
self over  to  Providence.  For  a  moment  she  tried  to  per- 
suade herself  that  he  was  lying.  But  Jack  was  incapable  of 
lying.  Yet  for  weeks  he  must  have  lied  with  a  grim  and 
sanctimonious  face.  The  world  was  standing  on  its  head ! 
She  pictured  his  methodical,  deliberate  conversion — the 
first  interview  and  first  lie,  the  elaborate  instruction  in 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         239 

ritual  and  doctrine  until  he  had  told  enough  lies  to  convince 
the  priest,  the  final  reception  into  the  Church  with  a  final 
lie  that  would  infallibly  imperil  a  man's  soul,  if  there 
were  such  things.  .  .  . 

One  sentimental  idiot  had  shot  big  game  in  Uganda, 
when  she  would  not  marry  him.  Another  had  kept  his 
bed  for  a  week,  pretending  a  broken  heart.  Jack  said 
little;  but,  as  she  squandered  his  devotion,  she  felt  that  it 
would  never  come  again.  Perhaps  her  fear  of  him  was  the 
shell  of  love;  certainly  she  would  not  have  wasted  ten 
minutes  on  a  man  who  meant  nothing  to  her.  "Di'monds 
an'  pearls.  .  .  .  Di'monds  an'  pearl  I  have  thrown  away 
wid  both  hands — and  fwhat  have  I  left?  Oh,  fwhat  have 
I  left?"  The  words  came  in  one  of  Kipling's  stories, 
surely.  .  .  .  But  she  could  not  remember. 

The  hall  filled  again  with  the  sound  of  voices,  and  she 
hurried  out  rather  than  let  herself  be  seen  sitting  alone 
and  unexplained.  Six  young  officers  were  hastily  wrap- 
ping themselves  in  overcoats  and  golf -cloaks  under  the 
patronizing  direction  of  Val  Arden. 

"They  cast  lots  for  one's  raiment,"  he  observed  to  Bar- 
bara, "and  Summertown  had  the  good  fortune  to  draw 
one's  violet-silk  surtout.  One  could  not  wish  it  a  worthier 
occupant.  There  used  to  be  an  inside  pocket,  and  one  re- 
calls putting  into  it  a  trifle  of  cognac.  They  also  serve  who 
only  stand  the  drinks." 

Summertown  was  being  dressed  by  his  sister,  who  looked 
frightened  in  spite  of  his  easy  flow  of  facetious  reassur- 
ance. 

"Bless  you,  I'm  all  right !"  he  cried.  "They  wouldn't  hurt 
a  little  thing  like  me,  I  should  run  away  between  their 
feet  and  get  taken  prisoner.  You'll  hear  of  me  next  as  the 
regimental  pet  of  the  Death's  Head  Hussars.  By  the  way, 
does  anybody  know  who  we're  supposed  to  be  fighting? 


24o  LADY  LILITH 

My  jolly  old  uncle  never  let  that  out — sly  old  dog!  Good- 
bye, Babs !  See  you  again  soon." 

As  they  shook  hands,  she  suddenly  remembered  the  scene 
in  Webster's  rooms  when  Jack,  under  the  spell  of  Madame 
Hilary,  talked  of  a  war,  which  was  hanging  over  their 
heads,  and  of  his  own  instant  death. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  wish  you  weren't  going !"  she  cried  with 
such  emotion  that  Sally  Farwell  stared  at  her. 

"So  do  I.  'Haven't  finished  supper  yet.  Charles,  my 
lad,  d'you  think  that,  if  we  went  back  for  just  a  little  one, 
we  could  manage  to  get  left  behind  ?" 

Barbara  turned  quickly  and  walked  towards  the  door. 
She  knew  that  Summertown  would  be  killed.  .  .  .  Her 
scepticism  was  a  schoolgirl's;  she  refused  to  believe  things 
because  she  was  too  ignorant  to  understand  them.  For 
aught  she  knew,  there  might  be  a  Soul  of  Man,  for  which 
Man  could  be  held  to  account.  .  .  . 

Jack  was  talking  earnestly  by  the  steps,  an  overcoat  and 
rug  over  one  arm. 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  army,"  she  heard  Oakleigh 
say.  "But  any  one  of  these  fellows  would  tell  you.  Or  you 
can  try  O'Rane.  He  was  saying  after  dinner — in  all  se- 
riousness— that,  if  Austria  declared  war,  he'd  raise  a  For- 
eign Legion  and  go  and  fight  for  Servia.  He  was  through 
one  of  the  Balkan  wars,  you  know.  But  I  can't  believe 
there  will  be  any  fighting;  it's  on  too  big  a  scale,  you'll  have 
the  whole  world  in  flames.  In  your  place  I  should  do  noth- 
ing for  the  present." 

"But,  if  we  are  brought  in,  we  shall  have  to  raise  every 
man  we  can  lay  hands  on.  I  am  partly  trained;  I  was  in 
the  corps  at  Eton." 

"I  shall  believe  in  war  when  I  see  it." 

Barbara  walked  past  them  down  the  steps.  She  had  not 
tried  to  catch  Jack's  eye;  but  he  had  seen  her,  and  she 
hoped  that  he  would  follow  her.  The  broad  terrace  was 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         241 

littered  with  chairs,  as  the  deck  of  a  steamer  might  be; 
but  the  night  was  turning  cold,  and  she  walked  to  the 
stone  steps  at  the  end  without  seeing  any  one.  Then  she 
heard  the  sound  of  an  engine  starting,  and  a  muffled  pro- 
cession marched  to  the  car.  The  murmur  of  subdued  alter- 
cation reached  her.  "Charles,  my  lad,  you're  taking  up  too 
much  room.  ..."  "I'm  all  right,  I'll  sit  on  the  floor." 
.  .  .  "That's  a  goodish  hat  Phil's  wearing!  Phil,  if  you 
perch  on  the  radiator,  you'll  lend  tone  to  the  party.  ..." 

She  watched  Jack  coming  slowly  down  the  steps.  An 
apology  would  be  merely  insulting.  There  was  only  one 
possible  reparation,  and,  though  he  might  not  accept  it,  she 
must  at  least  offer  it;  if  he  flung  it  back  at  her,  she  would 
feel  less  guilty.  Another  hour,  and  she  could  think  this  to 
rights.  But  George  was  already  calling  the  roll. 

"Come  along,  Jack!  You're  keeping  the  whole  show 
waiting,"  cried  Summertown.  "  'The  stars  are  setting,  and 
the  caravan  starts  for  the  Dawn  of  Nothing.  Oh,  make 
haste !'  Or  words  to  that  effect." 

Barbara  took  a  step  forward,  as  Jack  shook  hands  with 
Oakleigh  and  ran  across  the  terrace  to  the  car.  He  might 
wound  her  vanity  again,  if  she  could  solace  her  soul  with 
the  knowledge  that  she  had  promised  him  all  that  she  had 
to  give. 

"Jack !" 

Her  voice  was  a  timid  whisper;  the  audience  of  jostling, 
laughing  young  officers  daunted  her.  What  would  they 
think  of  her,  standing  alone  on  the  terrace,  running  up  to 
the  car  and  insisting  that  she  must  speak  to  Jack  ? 

George  came  down  the  steps  and  slammed  the  door. 
"Right  away !"  she  heard,  and  the  car  moved  slowly  to- 
wards her.  At  the  corner  of  the  terrace  the  head-lights 
swrung  dazzlingly  on  to  her,  and  she  threw  up  her  arm  as 
though  they  would  blind  her.  Some  one  began  to  sing, 
"Dixie !  All  aboard  for  Dixie !"  A  voice  murmured  drow- 


242  LADY  LILITH 

sily,  "Dry  up !  I  want  to  go  to  sleep."  The  gears  changed 
with  a  grind;  Barbara  looked  up  to  see  a  single  red  tail- 
light. 

"Jack !    Before  you  go !    I  want  to  speak  to  you !" 

She  was  calling  with  all  her  strength  now,  but  the  beat 
of  the  engine  drowned  her  voice. 

"Jack !    Please,  Jack !" 

She  hurried  down  the  stone  steps  at  the  end  of  the 
terrace  and  ran  a  few  paces  along  the  drive,  repeating  his 
name  with  a  sob  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  the  vanish- 
ing pin-point  of  red  light. 

George  was  still  standing  in  the  door-way  when  she  re- 
turned at  a  limp.  For  a  moment  she  was  afraid  to  speak 
lest  she  began  to  cry. 

"I've  got  a  stone  in  my  shoe,"  she  announced  at  length. 

He  smiled  and  offered  her  his  arm. 

"You're  looking  tired,  Barbara.  Have  you  had  any  sup- 
per?" 

Only  the  kind  and  well-intentioned  could  ask  innocent 
questions  which  hurt  like  the  thrust  of  a  needle  under  a 
finger-nail.  At  one  time  it  seemed  as  though  she  would 
never  escape  from  the  banqueting-hall. 

"I've  had  supper,  thanks,"  she  answered,  resting  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  as  she  felt  for  the  stone  in  her  shoe. 
Then  she  remembered  a  similar  act  and  attitude,  when  she 
and  Jack  stood  breathless  at  the  end  of  the  Croxton  vil- 
lage street  on  the  night  of  their  first  meeting;  and  she 
limped  to  a  chair.  "It's  dreadful  to  see  all  those  boys  go- 
ing off.  I  feel  that  some  of  them  will  never  come  back." 

"But  we  aren't  even  at  war  yet,"  George  protested. 

"Everybody  seems  to  think  we  soon  shall  be.  Didn't  I 
hear  Jack  Waring  talking  to  you  about  trying  to  get  a 
commission  ?" 

"Well,  he  wants  to  be  prepared,  of  course.  It's  a  mili- 
tary family,  you  see." 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         243 

They  walked  upstairs  together  and  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  the  ball-room.  Colonel  Farwell's  car  had  come 
and  gone  very  unobtrusively;  no  one  seemed  to  miss  the 
absentees,  and  Loring  and  Mayhew,  O'Rane  and  Arden 
were  holding  the  party  together  with  tireless  energy  and 
zest.  At  three  o'clock  Lady  Knightrider  and  those  who 
had  long  distances  to  cover  reluctantly  sent  for  their  cars, 
but  the  house-party  and  its  near  neighbours  danced  inde- 
fatigably.  At  sunrise  the  curtains  were  flung  aside  and  the 
lights  turned  out;  the  last  of  many  suppers  was  eaten  on  the 
terrace  at  half -past  four,  and  at  five  O'Rane  organized  3 
slow  march-past  of  the  remaining  cars  in  honour  of  Lor- 
ing and  Violet  who  stood  on  the  top  of  the  steps,  bowing 
with  weary  joyousness  their  acknowledgement  of  the  last 
toast. 

Barbara  had  been  compelled  at  first  to  do  her  share  of 
dancing,  but,  when  the  band  escaped  to  catch  an  early  train 
back  to  London,  she  took  possession  of  the  piano.  It  was 
again  horribly  like  that  first  night  at  Croxton,  when  Jack 
sat  in  some  embarrassment  by  her  side  on  the  dais;  but 
at  least  she  was  not  expected  to  talk  or  to  pretend  that 
she  was  enjoying  herself.  When  Arden  joined  her,  she 
resigned  the  piano  to  him  and  slipped  upstairs  to  her  room. 
She  was  down  again  a  moment  later,  trying  to  decide 
whether  it  was  more  intolerable  to  be  with  others  or  alone. 
Her  room  was  too  tranquil  and  cool;  she  had  been  so 
happy,  as  she  dressed,  so  determined  to  enjoy  herself; — 
and  she  had  nothing  on  her  mind.  Through  the  open  win- 
dow she  heard  Arden's  hand  and  voice  at  the  piano,  punctu- 
ated by  burst  of  cheering  from  the  strip  of  drive  under  the 
terrace.  The  engines  of  the  cars  thrashed  and  beat,  then 
grew  calm  and  jerked  into  sound  again  as  one  after  another 
shot  forward;  Loring  and  Violet  were  hoarse  but  inex- 
haustibly happy,  and,  as  Barbara  ran  downstairs,  she  told 


244  LADY  LILITH 

herself  that  she  too  wanted  to  congratulate  them  again ;  in 
their  present  state  they  were  too  rare  to  be  wasted. 

"What's  the  next  item,  Jim?"  panted  O'Rane,  as  she 
came  on  to  the  terrace.  His  hair  was  disordered,  his  shirt 
and  collar  crumpled  and  his  arms  full  of  the  champagne 
glasses  which  the  departing  guests  had  tossed  to  him  after 
the  final  toast.  But  he  was  ready  to  go  through  the  night's 
revelry  from  the  beginning.  "I'll  race  you  to  the  river 
and  back!" 

"My  little  man,  I  assure  you  that  you  will  do  no  such 
thing,"  Loring  answered.  "If  any  one  wants  to  dance  any 
more,  you  can  play  to  them;  if  any  one  wants  anything 
more  to  eat  and  drink,  you  can  supply  their  wants.  /  think 
it's  high  time  we  were  all  in  bed.  You're  certainly  going 
indoors  before  you  catch  cold,"  he  said  to  Violet.  "And 
you,  Sally.  And  you,  Babs." 

He  rounded  them  up  until  Barbara  alone  remained  be- 
hind with  the  chill  wind  of  early  morning  beating  on  her 
bare  shoulders  and  chest  and  blowing  unchecked  through 
her  gossamer  clothes.  After  the  earlier  insufferable  heat, 
this  cold  air  with  its  burden  of  dew  and  night-scented  stock 
wrapped  itself  round  her  body  like  a  bandage  laid  on  burn- 
ing flesh.  It  purified,  too,  like  a  mountain  torrent  of  melt- 
ing snow  pouring  over  her  arms  and  breast.  Some  girl  in 
a  book — it  was  by  Gissing,  but  she  could  not  remember 
names  to-night — had  bathed  naked  in  the  sea  by  moon- 
light— to  cleanse  her  spirit  because  she  had  suffered  men  to 
touch  her  body ;  this  wind,  as  yet  unwarmed  by  the  orange 
sun  of  dawn,  served  her  in  place  of  the  kindly  sea.  .  .  . 

"If  you  want  triple  pneumonia,  Babs,  that's  the  way  to 
get  it,"  said  Loring. 

His  voice  suggested  a  new  train  of  thought,  and  she 
pursued  it  without  answering.  Some  young  wife  in  a 
book — it  was  by  Balzac,  but  she  could  not  remember  names 
to-night — broke  her  heart  because  she  fancied  that  her  hus- 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         245 

band  had  ceased  to  love  her;  no  longer  caring  for  life,  she 
worked  herself  into  a  violent  sweat  and  stood  in  the  dew 
by  the  brink  of  a  pond  until  she  had  given  herself  con- 
sumption. .  .  .  But  to  take  refuge  in  suicide  was  to  shew 
that  you  were  unfit  to  have  been  born,  that  you  were  un- 
equal to  life;  this,  even  this  night  of  horror,  was  a  thing 
to  be  mastered ;  Barbara  luxuriated  in  life  as  a  thing  to  be 
dominated  and  enchained  like  a  destroying  flood  or  fire  .  .  . 

"It's  such  a  wonderful  morning,  Jim,"  she  said,  as  she 
turned. 

"Yes,  but,  as  we've  managed  to  get  through  one  whole 
night  without  quarrelling,  don't  catch  a  chill  at  the  end 
and  put  the  blame  on  me.  I  thought,  all  things  considered, 
that  it  went  off  very  well." 

"I  suppose  so.  ...  Jim,  when  I'm  responsible  for  a 
thing,  I  never  put  the  blame  on  other  people.  You  can't 
deny  me  courage." 

"My  dear  girl,  I  can't  remember  a  single  occasion  on 
which  you've  taken  the  blame  for  anything.  Perhaps  you'll 
reply  that  you  never  were  to  blame  for  anything,  and  we 
might  argue  about  that  for  a  very  long  time.  Come  to  bed ; 
you're  shivering." 

She  walked  with  him  into  the  house  and  looked  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  clock,  while  he  barred  the  door  behind  them. 
Six !  It  seemed  hardly  worth  while  going  to  bed.  .  .  . 

"Are  you  tired,  Jim?  Too  tired  to  smoke  a  cigarette 
and  listen  to  me  blaming  myself?" 

Loring's  heart  seemed  to  sink.  He  had  seen  her  with 
Jack  and  he  had  listened  to  an  eager  but  unconvincing  story 
designed  to  shew  that,  in  Jack's  eyes,  it  made  all  the  dif- 
ference in  the  world  whether  he  motored  to  Gloucester 
and  arrived  in  London  in  time  for  breakfast  or  breakfasted 
at  the  Castle  or  in  Raglan  and  returned  to  London  by  a 
morning  train. 

"I'll  listen — with  pleasure,"  he  said. 


246  LADY  LILITH 

Barbara  looked  for  a  comfortable  seat  and  led  the  way 
to  a  sofa  in  the  smoking-room. 

"I  believe  Jack  Waring  has  discussed  me  with  you?" 

she  began. 

"I  think  he's  told  me  everything  that  was  to  be  told,"  an- 
swered Loring. 

"Including  to-night?"  It  was  an  idle  question,  for  Jim 
would  have  been  more  Rhadamanthine  if  Jack  had  de- 
scribed the  last  disillusionment.  "Well,  you  know  he 
asked  me  to  marry  him;  and  I  refused,  because  he  wasn't 
a  Catholic.  He  is  a  Catholic  now — in  name;  he  asked  me 
again  to-night,  and  I  refused  again." 

"Why?" 

Men  preserved  a  rare  sex-loyalty.  Loring's  tone  was 
Jack's ;  his  face  was  setting  with  the  same  rigidity,  and  he 
would  shew  as  little  mercy. 

"I  didn't  feel  I  was  in  love  with  him." 

"Were  you  ever  in  love  with  him  ?  A  good  many  people 
thought  you  were." 

Barbara  pondered  deeply  over  her  answer. 

"I  could  never  be  in  love  with  any  one  who  wasn't  gentle 
with  me.  .  .  .  I — rather  admired  Jack,  because  he  was 
clean  and  honest  and  had  the  courage  to  say  things  that  I'd 
have  hit  another  man  for " 

"But  you  were  afraid  of  him,"  Loring  murmured.  "Go 
on !  You  wanted  to  shew  him  how  wrong  he  was " 

"I  owed  it  to  myself  to  shew  him  what  I  was  really  like, 
not  what  the  halfpenny  press  thinks  I  am.  He  fell  in  love ; 
and  then,  when  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  I  lost  my 
head " 

"But  you  never  told  him  that  you  weren't  in  love  with 
him,"  Loring  interrupted  again. 

Barbara's  eyes  fell. 

"I'd  lost  my  nerve  as  well  as  my  head,"  she  sighed. 
"He'd  have  thought  so  much  worse  of  me.  I  didn't  see 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         247 

him  after  that  until  to-night;  I  hoped  it  was  all  over.  I 
told  him  again  that  I  couldn't  marry  him  and  then  I  told 
him  the  truth — that  I  wasn't  in  love  with  him.  And  then — 
then  he  saw  everything.  .  .  .  Jim,  I'm  not  asking  for  mercy 
from  him  or  you  or  any  one ;  I'm  telling  you  the  truth  and 
I  want  to  be  judged  on  that.  Until  to-night  I  honestly 
didn't  know  how  bad  it  was,  I  didn't  know  that  I  was 
anything  more  than  some  one  who  attracted  him " 

"You  accursed  women  never  do!"  Loring  broke  in. 
"Well,  go  on !  You  played  with  him  and  led  him  on  and 
checked  him  till  he  proposed — men,  hard-headed  men  who 
aren't  drunk,  don't  propose  when  they're  merely  'attracted* 
• — he  proposed,  and  you  told  him  an  extremely  ingenious 
lie  which  I  should  have  thought  your  extravagant  super- 
stition might  have  kept  you  from  telling.  Then!  Then, 
when  he  pays  you  the  compliment  of  thinking  you  a  wo- 
man of  honour,  you  admit  it's  a  lie.  Go  on,  Barbara !" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly  and  leaned  wearily  forward, 
resting  her  chin  on  her  hand. 

"It's  no  good,  Jim.  If  any  one  hits  you  often  enough  in 
the  same  place,  you  cease  to  feel.  You  want  to  hurt  me — 
I  don't  wonder! — but  you  can't;  I'm  too  bruised.  No,  he 
said  hardly  anything.  It  wasn't  necessary  to  say  anything; 
he  knew.  ..." 

Loring  strode  to  the  table,  picked  up  a  cigarette  and 
flung  it  back  into  the  box.  He  found  that  Barbara  was 
watching  him  with  wonder  in  her  eyes  and  waited  till  his 
indignation  was  under  control. 

"And  so  you  got  a  new  emotion,"  he  sneered.  "Two,  in 
fact.  You  played  cat  and  mouse  with  a  man's  happiness; 
and  then  you  had  the  morbid  pleasure  of  letting  yourself  be 
flayed  alive.  ...  I  should  think  it  will  be  your  last  emo- 
tion for  some  time." 

"As  you  like,  Jim.  But  it'll  be  easier  if  I  tell  you  every- 
thing and  then  let  you  criticize.  .  .  .  Jack  hardly  said  a 


248  LADY  LILITH 

word.  It  was  sinking  in ;  and  it  was  sinking  in  with  me, 
too.  I'm  not  a  coward,  Jim " 

"Oh,  leave  your  vile  little  posturings  out !" 

"I'm  not  a  coward,"  she  repeated  patiently.  "Standing 
out  there  a  moment  ago,  I  thought  how  easy  it  would  be 
to  get  pneumonia  and  die  and  end  everything —  Don't  say 
'another  emotion'!  A  coward  would  have.  But  I'd  de- 
cided to  accept  the  consequences.  I  was  on  the  point  of 
telling  Jack  he  could  marry  me,  if  he  wanted  to,  when 
that  car  came  and  everybody  started  running  about.  .  .  . 
I  tried  to  catch  him  before  he  left,  I  ran  after  the  car.  .  .  . 
That's  all,  Jim." 

Looking  at  her,  he  saw  that  she  was  indeed  too  much 
bruised  to  feel. 

"And  now?"  he  asked. 

Barbara  shook  her  head  hopelessly  and  stared  across 
the  room  out  of  the  window. 

"He  can  do  what  he  likes  with  me.  He  can  marry  me 
and  beat  me.  He  can  sit — dear  God !  he  can  sit  as  he  sat 
to-night,  looking  at  me  as  though  I  were  a  bundle  of  rags 
and  sores  that  had  thrown  its  arms  round  him.  He  can 
tell  people.  .  .  .  Or  he  can  keep  me  to  himself  and  sneer 
and  torture  me  when  he's  in  the  mood.  He  can  take  me 
and  break  my  heart  and  fling  me  away  after  a  week,  if  he 
likes.  There's  nothing,  nothing  I  won't  do !" 

Her  vehemence  startled  him  for  a  moment,  but  her  tone 
and  phrasing  were  too  rhetorical  to  be  convincing. 

"I  admire  your  capacity  for  getting  the  last  ounce  even 
out  of  repentance,"  Loring  murmured. 

For  a  moment  Barbara  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  him ; 
then  she  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  smoking-room  and 
across  the  hall  to  a  studded  oak  door.  She  rattled  the 
handle  for  a  moment  and  then  came  back. 

"Where's  the  key  of  the  chapel?"  she  demanded.  "You 
believe  in  something,  I  suppose?  And  I  suppose  you  ad- 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         249 

mit  that  even  I  would  stop  short  of  some  things.  Give  me 
the  key!  I'll  swear  to  you  on  the  image  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin " 

"I  don't  think  I  should  dip  any  deeper  into  that  kind  of 
thing  if  I  were  you." 

"I'll  swear  by  anything!  You  see  those  two  matches? 
That's  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  I  swear  by  the  Cross  that 
I'll  offer  myself  to  Jack!  And  he  can  do  what  he  likes 
with  me." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  rather  a  waste  of  breath  to  talk  like  this 
to  Jack?" 

"You  mean  I'm  not  in  earnest?  I  swear  to  you,  Jim, 
that  I'll  beg  him  to  marry  me,  if  he  still  wants  to." 

The  clock  struck  half-past  six,  and  Loring  shivered. 

"I  wish  to  God  you'd  died  before  you  ever  met  him!" 
he  muttered.  "What  the  devil's  the  good  of  telling  me  all 
this?" 

"If  I  hadn't  told  you,  nobody'd  have  known.  Jack 
wouldn't  tell.  I  wanted  to  commit  myself  before  I  had  time 
to  go  back.  Now  I'll  give  the  whole  of  my  life  trying  to 
make  him  happy,  to  atoning  .  .  ." 

Loring  caught  her  wrists  and  gripped  them. 

"Leave  him  alone!"  he  cried.  "It  would  be  suicide  if 
you  married  after  this." 

"If  he  wants  me.  ..."  Barbara  began  again.  "Jim, 
can't  you  see  that  I'm  trying  to  save  my  soul?  He  can 
have  everything.  I'm  quite  young,  and  he  can  have  all  my 
youth  and  life,  my  looks,  anything  that  I've  got,  anything 
that  I  am.  He  can  take  it  all — or  he  can  fling  it  all  back  at 
me." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him.  Loring  pulled  her  to 
her  feet  and  led  her  to  the  door. 

"Leave  him  alone !"  he  repeated  roughly. 

Barbara  left  by  the  ten  o'clock  train,  while  the  rest  of  the 
house-party  was  still  in  bed.  Her  maid  was  well  used  to 


25o  LADY  LILITH 

sudden  changes  of  plan,  but  she  ventured  to  point  out 
that  the  family  was  at  the  Abbey  and  that  the  house  in  Ber- 
keley Square  was  closed. 

"Well,  it  will  have  to  be  opened,  then,"  said  Barbara. 

She  had  not  gone  to  bed,  and  there  were  dark  rings 
round  her  eyes;  but  she  was  clear-headed  and  determined. 
Her  maid  tried  to  tempt  her  with  breakfast  before  their 
long  drive,  but  Barbara  did  not  want  to  eat  until  she  had 
seen  Jack.  In  the  train  she  could  hardly  keep  her  eyes 
open;  but,  until  she  had  seen  Jack,  she  did  not  want  to 
sleep.  Every  one  seemed  to  be  hurrying  to  London,  as 
though  there  would  be  later  news  of  the  war  there;  and 
she  heard  a  far  away  babble  of  what  Lichnowski  had  said, 
what  Kuhlmann  had  proposed  for  localizing  the  war.  .  .  . 
But  she  was  wondering  only  what  Jack  was  about.  The 
luncheon-car  attendant  slid  open  the  door,  but  she  shook 
her  head  at  him;  the  idea  of  food  nauseated  her,  and 
she  was  glad  to  have  the  compartment  to  herself  for  half 
an  hour. 

When  her  fellow-travellers  returned,  they  found  her  with 
her  head  against  the  window  and  her  arms  limply  by  her 
side.  One  of  them  hurried  away  for  water,  and,  when  she 
shivered  and  opened  her  eyes,  some  one  had  laid  her  flat  on 
the  seat,  and  a  voice — the  first  kind  voice  that  she  had  heard 
for  days — was  saying: 

"Carriage  a  bit  hot  for  you?  Or  perhaps  you're  not 
a  good  traveller.  I'm  a  doctor — or  used  to  me.  Just  go- 
ing up  to  see  if  the  War  Office  wants  volunteers  in  case 
of  war.  I  saw  you  didn't  come  along  to  lunch;  when  did 
you  last  have  anything  to  eat?" 

"I've  really  forgotten,"  Barbara  answered. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  biscuit,  eh? 
And  I'll  try  to  get  you  a  little  more  room." 

He  whispered  to  the  men  who  were  standing  in  the 
corridor  and  distributed  them  in  the  other  compartments 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         251 

until  he  and  Barbara  were  alone.  After  the  coffee  she  felt 
less  sick  and  from  Swindon  to  London  she  was  able  to  get 
some  sleep.  At  Paddington  the  doctor  wanted  to  take  her 
home,  but  she  protested  that  her  maid  could  do  all  that  was 
necessary,  and  he  left  her  with  an  urgent  recommendation 
to  bed. 

Barbara  thanked  him  for  all  his  kindness  and  ordered 
two  taxis.  One  took  the  maid  and  the  luggage  to  Berkeley 
Square ;  in  the  other  she  drove  to  the  County  Club  and  en- 
quired bravely  for  Mr.  Waring.  The  porter  replied  that  he 
had  left  the  club  immediately  after  luncheon,  and  she  made 
her  way  to  the  Temple.  Hitherto  she  had  not  dreamed 
that  there  would  be  any  difficulty  in  finding  him ;  but  Middle 
Temple  Lane,  narrow,  cold  and  almost  empty,  daunted  her. 
It  was  the  first  of  August,  and  the  rows  of  names  painted 
at  the  foot  of  each  staircase  looked  ownerless  and  imper- 
sonal as  grave-yard  head-stones  in  the  general  desolation. 
As  she  pattered  up  two  flights  of  stone  steps  to  Jack's 
chambers,  the  giddiness  which  had  overtaken  her  in  the 
train  returned  and  stopped  her  short  with  a  pain  in  her  side. 
The  walls  were  advancing  and  retiring,  the  banisters  swayed 
and  the  floor  of  the  landing  heaved  gently  like  a  pitching 
boat. 

When  she  felt  steadier,  she  knocked  at  the  door  and 
waited  patiently  until  she  heard  feet  shuffling  in  the  dis- 
tance. A  pink-faced  elderly  man  informed  her  that  Mr. 
Waring  had  gone  away  for  the  Long  Vacation;  he  spoke 
with  a  strong  Cockney  accent,  and  Barbara  decided  that  he 
must  be  the  clerk  with  whom  she  had  contended  by  tele- 
phone and  whom  she  had  imagined  to  be  obsequious  and 
yet  sinister,  with  red  eyes,  short  hair  and  bitten  nails,  a 
second  Uriah  Heep. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  can  find  him?"  she  asked. 

"The  first  address  he  give  me  was  at  Kaglan " 


252  LADY  LILITH 

"Ah,  but  he  came  back  to  London  last  night.  He's  not 
been  here  to-day?" 

"No,  miss." 

"Do  you  know  his  address  in  Hampshire?  Do  you  think 
you  could  telephone  to  find  out  whether  he's  there?" 

The  clerk  scratched  his  head  and  referred  to  a  list  of 
numbers  pinned  in  the  passage  by  the  telephone.  Barbara 
had  disturbed  his  afternoon  sleep,  but  she  was  an  uncom- 
monly pretty  young  woman,  some  one  to  relieve  the  monot- 
ony of  the  moribund  chambers;  expensively  dressed,  too, 
and  one  who  would  liberally  repay  a  little  trouble.  His 
curiosity  was  whetted  by  her  coming  to  see  young  Waring ; 
still  waters  ran  deep.  .  .  . 

"If  you'll  come  in  and  sit  down,  miss,"  he  suggested  hos- 
pitably. "What  nime  shall  I  siy?" 

"Lady  Barbara  Neave.  You  needn't — I  mean,  I  don't 
want  to  speak  to  him.  It's  just  the  address." 

"I  see.  Had  the  pleasure  o'  talking  to  you  once  before 
on  the  'phone,  my  lidy." 

"Ah,  yes." 

Barbara  walked  into  a  shabby  room  with  two  scarred 
writing  tables,  a  threadbare  carpet  and  four  hard  little 
armchairs.  One  wall  was  covered  by  a  book-case  filled  with 
Law  Reports,  old,  discoloured  volumes  of  the  "Annual 
Practice"  and  standard  works  on  Pleading,  Criminal  Law 
and  Procedure,  Real  Property  and  the  like.  A  few  pounds 
would  have  freshened  the  dingy  room  out  of  recognition 
and  perhaps  even  given  it  a  personal  note,  but  Jack  was  in- 
sensible to  beauty  and  ugliness  alike;  he  noticed  the  peel- 
ing yellow  wall-paper  as  little  as  he  noticed  the  intoxi- 
cating afternoon  sun  on  the  river;  he  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  her.  :  .  .  She  remembered  the  promise  which  she 
had  made  to  herself  and  began  to  look  at  the  papers  on  his 
table — long,  white  bundles  tied  with  pink  tape  and  en- 
grossed with  old-fashioned  lettering  which  she  could  hardly 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         253 

read.  These  must  be  briefs,  set  out  to  look  imposing,  for 
many  were  grey  with  dust.  There  was  an  unexplained 
red  sack,  embroidered  with  his  initials  and  fastened  with  a 
red  cord;  and  a  small  black  box  with  his  name  in  white 
letters,  containing  an  absurd  wig.  This  was  his  life,  a 
life  which  absorbed  him.  .  .  . 

Outside  in  the  passage  the  clerk  began  a  sing-song  mono- 
logue. 

"Trunks,  miss,  please.  Trunks,  if — you — please.  Is  that 
Trunks?  I  want  Lashmar  four  seven.  This  is  Holborn 
double  four  nine  double-two.  No!  Nine!  Double- four 
nine  double-two.  Thank  you."  He  shuffled  into  the  room 
and  smiled  familiarly  at  Barbara.  "They'll  call  me  when 
I'm  through.  Now  may  I  get  you  a  cup  of  tea,  me  lidy  ?" 

Barbara  thanked  him,  but  refused  the  tea.  The  Cockney 
accent  was  intensified  when  he  spoke  on  the  telephone,  and 
it  reminded  her  once  again  of  the  winter  afternoon  when 
she  had  tried  to  drag  Jack  away  from  a  consultation,  the  af- 
ternoon of  her  visit  to  Webster's  flat.  If  she  had  stopped 
then,  there  would  now  be  nothing  to  regret  or  to  repair. 
Her  fatal  step  was  to  invite  him  to  dinner  that  night  merely 
because  she  wanted  the  support  of  some  one  solid  and  well- 
balanced.  Since  that  day  she  had  never  been  able  to  decide 
how  she  felt  towards  him;  she  had  been  unable  to  tell 
Loring  a  few  hours  before.  If,  instead  of  always  frighten- 
ing her,  he  could  have  shewn  a  little  gentleness  .  .  . 
George  Oakleigh,  to  whom  she  was  nothing,  always  helped 
her  into  a  cloak  as  though  she  were  the  most  fragile  and 
precious  thing  in  the  world;  and  she  became  rebellious  and 
reckless,  when  any  one  was  harsh  to  her.  Jack  would  or- 
der her  home  after  a  ball  like  a  drill-sergeant ;  George  came 
up  two  minutes  later  and  said,  "I  wonder  whether  you'll  let 
me  take  you  home?  You're  looking  so  white  and  tired." 
It  was  more  than  a  difference  of  manner.  Jack  never  re- 
alized that  a  girl  could  be  hungry  for  tenderness,  but  love 


254  LADY  LILITH 

was  nothing  without  affection.  .  .  ..  And  love  was  always 
easier  to  give  than  affection. 

The  telephone  rang,  and  the  clerk  reported  that  Mr. 
Waring  was  not  in  Hampshire  nor  expected  there  for  near- 
ly another  week.  As  Barbara  walked  downstairs  and 
drove  home,  she  tried  to  think  of  any  means  of  getting 
into  touch  with  him  which  her  tired  brain  had  not  already 
suggested.  At  worst  she  could  always  write,  but  she 
wanted  to  throw  her  pride  at  his  feet  to  be  trampled  and 
bruised,  she  wanted  to  look  him  in  the  eyes  without  flinch- 
ing or  begging  for  mercy.  .  .  . 

In  the  train  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world  were  coming 
to  London,  but  London  was  now  empty  of  every  one  that 
she  wanted  to  see.  Summertown,  who  might  have  useful 
information,  could  not  be  found  in  his  rooms  or  in  bar- 
racks ;  Framlingham  was  "expected  back  any  minute."  She 
called  a  second  time  at  the  County  .Club,  but  Jack  had  not 
returned.  And,  after  dining  by  herself  in  her  bare,  half- 
resurrected  bedroom,  she  telephoned  with  carefully  dis- 
guised voice.  At  the  third  failure,  she  abandoned  his  club ; 
to  welcome  humiliation  from  Jack  was  hardly  the  same 
thing  as  to  accept  it  from  hall-porters  and  page-boys.  .  .  . 

Though  she  was  a  night's  sleep  in  arrears,  she  could  not 
lie  still  in  bed.  An  old  French  clock  with  a  squeaking,  high 
note  that  reminded  her  absurdly  of  Jack's  clerk,  struck  mid- 
night, one  and  two.  She  turned  on  the  light  and  reached 
for  her  writing-case. 

"/  don't  apologize,  because  no  apology  is  adequate;  I 
don't  seek  forgiveness,  for,  though  I  honour  and  admire 
and  wonder  at  you  and  your  devotion  to  some  one  who 
never  deserved  a  thousandth  part  of  it,  I  don't  believe  any 
one  has  the  greatness  of  soul  to  forgive  me.  I  am  writing 
to  say  that,  if  you  still  want  me,  I  will  do  whatever  you 
ask.  I  can  never  make  amends.  But  I  will  try  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  strength.  BARBARA." 


AN  ERROR  OF  JUDGEMENT         255 

She  threw  the  letter  into  the  writing-case  and  turned 
the  key.  A  second  sleepless  night  followed  the  first,  but 
she  was  buoyed  up  by  excitement  and  the  sense  of  a  pur- 
pose to  fulfil.  The  Sunday  papers  dragged  war  from  the 
middle-distance  into  the  foreground,  and,  as  she  walked  in 
a  parched  and  unfamiliar  Park  before  luncheon,  she  felt 
that  Jim  would*  not  be  able  to  keep  away  from  London  much 
longer.  On  Monday  morning  she  heard  that  he  was  re- 
turning next  day,  and  on  Tuesday  afternoon  she  called  at 
Loring  House. 

"Jim,  I  don't  care  what  you  think  of  me,  but  you've  got 
to  help  me,"  she  began. 

He  saw  a  pinched  face  lit  by  feverishly  bright  eyes, 
whose  pupils  contracted  and  dilated  as  he  looked  into  them. 

"I'm  afraid  this  has  rather  come  home  to  roost,  Babs," 
he  said  gently.  "I'm  sorry;  honestly,  I  am." 

She  was  so  broken-spirited  that  he  found  himself  draw- 
ing her  to  him  and  kissing  her  forehead.  At  the  touch 
of  his  lips  her  muscles  relaxed  until  he  was  supporting  her 
weight  with  one  arm. 

"Ah,  kiss  my  eyes,  Jim !"  she  whispered.     "They're  ach- 
ing so  terribly!     I  want  to  sleep;  and  I'm  haunted.  .   .  ... 

What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  can't  find  him !" 

"I  shouldn't  try  to.  Babs,  you  know  Jack  always  had  the 
pride  of  the  devil;  he's  probably  very  sore.  And  this  is 
the  first  time  that  a  woman  has  played  any  kind  of  trick 
on  him;  I  don't  suppose  it'll  be  the  last,  but  you  can  be 
sure  that  he  feels  that  the  bottom's  been  knocked  out  the 
universe." 

"But  I  want  to  Help  him!  If  I  can  ^.nre  him  any- 
thing  " 

"He  doesn't  want  you  now." 

"After  doing  what  he  did  ?  Jim,  if  I'd  loved  a  man  as  he 
loved  me,  I'd  do  anything  to  get  him,  to  get  him  back! 
There'd  be  nothing  left  in  life  without  him !" 


256  LADY  LILITH 

"One  thinks  so  at  first.  But,  when  love  dies,  resentment 
is  a  workable  substitute.  Leave  it  alone,  Babs.  I  must  run 
away  now,  because  I  want  to  talk  to  the  War  Office  about 
taking  a  commission,  if  war  breaks  out.  Jack's  doing  the 
same.  .  .  .  By  the  way,  I'm  standing  by  to  have  House  of 
Steynes  and  the  Castle  and  the  place  at  Market  Harborough 
turned  into  hospitals.  If  you  want  something  to  do,  you 
can  apply  to  be  taken  on  as  a  nurse.  In  six  months  from 
now,  when  the  war's  over  and  forgotten,  it'll  be  time  enough 
to  move.  I  begged  Jack  to  go  slow  and  think  the  thing 
out,  because — frankly,  Babs — I  didn't  know  what  you  were 
up  to;  and  I  beg  you  to  think  and  go  on  thinking  and  to 
wait  till  you're  cool.  You  hardly  know  what  you're  doing 
now;  and,  if  I  know  anything  of  men,  Jack's  a  raving 
lunatic." 

He  moved  haltingly  to  the  door.  Barbara  followed  with 
bent  head. 

"And  you  want  me  to  leave  him  like  that  ?" 

"You  can't  mend  things  'at  present — if  ever." 

"And  in  the  meantime  he  may  take  a  commission  and 
go  out " 

"And  be  killed,"  said  Loring,  as  she  hesitated.  "Let's 
face  it." 

"And  be  killed,"  she  replied.  "Jim,  I  can't  sit  with  my 
hands  folded.  .  .  .  What  d'you  think  Judas  Iscariot  felt 
like  during  the  Crucifixion?" 

Loring  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  opened  the  door  for 
her  without  answering.  For  the  first  time  that  day  he 
doubted  her  ce":ty.  It  was  terribly  in  keeping  with  her 
love  for  the  dramatic,  the  bizarre,  the  sensational,  the 
gigantic  for  her  to  be  comparing  herself  with  Judas  Is- 
ccariot.  , 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

i 

A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION 

"Fenced  by  your  careful  fathers,  ringed  by  your  leaden  seas, 
Long  did  ye  wake  in  quiet  and  long  lie  down  at  ease ; 
Till  ye  said  of  Strife  'What  is  it?'  of  the  Sword,  'It  is  far  from 

our  ken'; 
Till  ye  made  a  sport  of  your  shrunken  hosts  and  a  toy  of  your 

armed  men. 
Ye    stopped   your   ears   to   the   warning — ye   would   neither   look 

nor  heed — 
Ye  set  your  leisure  before  their  toil  and  your  lusts  above  their 

need." 

RUDYARD  KIPLING:    "THE  ISLANDERS." 

"You'vE  probably  stirred  up  an  ant-hill  with  the  end 
of  your  stick  before  now,"  said  Eric  Lane,  shading  his  eyes 
and  shifting  himself  in  bed  until  he  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  Lashmar  Woods  in  their  riot  of  autumn  colour.  "I 
feel  that's  what  the  Almighty  has  done  here ;  we're  scattered 
in  every  direction,  running  about  in  wild  confusion  without 
knowing  in  the  least  what  any  one  else  is  doing.  I  feel 
amazingly  out  of  everything." 

He  had  already  been  seven  weeks  in  bed  at  Lashmar  Mill- 
House  and  was  white-faced  and  cavaderous,  with  bloodless 
lips  and  immense  sunken  brown  eyes.  This  was  the  worst 
breakdown  that  he  had  undergone  since  he  was  a  boy;  but 
all  danger  was  now  over,  and  his  voice  was  beginning  to 
recover  its  strength  and  music.  Jack  had  walked  over  to 
sit  with  him.  It  was  their  first  meeting  since  they  jour- 
neyed to  Oxford  together  for  their  degrees ;  Jack  had  been 
training  in  London  and  was  wearing  for  the  first  time  the 
uniform  of  a  second  lieutenant. 

"How  soon  are  you  going  to  be  allowed  up?" 

257 


258  LADY  LILITH 

"In  another  week,"  Eric  answered.  "I  don't  know  when 
I  shall  be  able  to  start  regular  work  again.  I've  had  to 
chuck  the  paper.  I  don't  think  they  were  sorry  to  get  rid 
of  me:  there's  been  drastic  staff  reduction  in  Fleet  Street 
sirlce  the  war.  It's  rather  a  bore,  though.  //  my  play's 
produced  in  the  spring,  if  it's  a  success,  I  may  have  some 
money;  otherwise  I  must  live  on  my  hard-earned  savings 
and  try  to  find  work.  One  of  the  government  offices  might 
take  me.  You  know  that  Oakleigh's  in  the  Admiralty?" 

"Yes,  and  O'Rane's  enlisted;  and  Jim  Loring's  a  staff 
captain;  and  that  swine  Webster  is  driving  a  car  for  the 
Red  Cross.  Even  the  egregious  Val  Arden's  taken  a  com- 
mission. I  rather  respect  him — for  the  first  time  in  my 
life;  he  looks  three  parts  gone  in  consumption,  but  he  got 
round  the  doctor.  He  wasn't  going  to  have  people  saying 
that  he  was  a  funk,  and  I  think  he  felt  that  he'd  led  a  foot- 
ling life  and  that  this  was  the  opportunity  of  shewing  what 
he  was  made  of.  Most  of  us  are  feeling  that  we've  wasted 
a  good  deal  of  our  time.  .  .  .  What  did  they  spin  you  for?" 

"Overstrained  heart.  And,  when  I  was  examined,  of 
course  I  was  about  half  an  hour  removed  from  my  final  col- 
lapse— which  I  think  we  will  not  discuss.  .  .  .  Did  you 
know  Deryk  Lancing?  It  was  horrible  about  his  death." 

"Yes,  I've  been  wondering  whether  it  was  an  accident," 
said  Jack.  ,  "He  was  so  full  of  nerves  that  I  should  never 
have  been  surprised  to  hear  he'd  gone  off  his  head.  But 
what  an  opportunity  the  war  would  have  been  for  him! 
Oakleigh  told  me  that  he  was  always  worrying  about  his 
money  and  wondering  what  to  do  with  it.  Well,  the  beauty 
of  being  in  the  army  is  that  you  can't  think  about  yourself ; 
you're  a  tiny  part  in  a  gigantic  machine,  and  your  individu- 
ality doesn't  matter  a  damn  to  any  one.  .  .  .  When  you 
think  how  every  man  and  women  you  know  was  attitudiniz- 
ing and  thinking  about  his  own  personality — Jack  Summer- 
town,  Val  Arden,  Deganway.  .  .  .  And  the  women  were 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION       259 

worse  than  the  men.  Everything  sacrificed  for  effect. 
Every  one  looking  for  new  emotions.  Sensationalists.  .  .  . 
You  tried  your  personality  on  a  new  diet  of  excitement 
every  day.  How  amazingly  small  it  all  seems  when  you 
measure  it  by  a  war  of  this  kind !  Even  the  biggest  thing 
of  all.  A  man  devotes  months  and  years  of  his  life  to  en- 
gaging the  affections  of  a  woman " 

"Well,  that  charge  can  never  be  brought  against  you," 
Eric  interrupted  with  a  laugh. 

Jack  bent  down  and  spent  some  moment  in  knocking  out 
his  pipe  against  the  fender.  His  parents  and  sister  still 
did  not  know  that  he  was  even  acquainted  with  Barbara; 
but  Eric  might  well  have  heard  gossip  from  Oakleigh  or  a 
dozen  others. 

"Well,  take  Loring's  case!  He  spent  years  over  that 
business  with  Sonia  Dainton.  Then  he  got  sane.  Then 
he  fell  in  love  with  Oakleigh's  cousin — engagement  an- 
nounced, flourish  of  trumpets,  an  immense  ball  in  honour 
of  the  occasion.  The  war  comes  along,  and  it  all  fades 
into  the  background.  I  suppose  they'll  be  married  as  soon 
as  it  can  be  arranged,  but  the  war's  the  important  thing 
in  his  life  now.  He's  transferring  to  a  service  battalion  as 
soon  as  he  possibly  can ;  with  any  luck  he'll  get  killed.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  you  saw  that  Jack  Summertown  had  been 
knocked  out?  In  the  first  casualty  list  of  all.  And  Archie 
Stornaway.  And  Charles  Framlingham.  All  three  heirs  to 
peerages,  and  two  of  them  were  staying  with  the  Lorings  at 
Chepstow  when  I  was  there.  If  you'd  been  told  a  year 
ago  .  .  .  But,  by  Jove,  this  is  pretty  much  what  O'Rane 
prophesied  ten  years  ago.  What  was  his  bet  ?  One  or  two  of 
us  have  gone  under,  one  or  two  are  dead — with  more  to  fol- 
low. One  or  two  married.  One  or  two  have  made  pretty 
fair  fools  of  ourselves.  O'Rane  himself  has  done  well. 
And  you're  going  to  be  our  new  playwright.  7  wasn't 
doing  badly  at  the  bar.  ...  It  all  seems  so  small  now." 


26o  LADY  LILITH 

Lady  Lane  came  in  with  tea,  and  soon  afterwards  Jack 
ieft.  He  was  due  back  in  London  to  dine  with  Loring,  who 
had  written  mysteriously  to  beg  him,  as  a  great  favour,  to 
arrange  a  meeting  the  moment  that  he  found  a  free  night. 
Jack  guessed  that  Barbara  was  in  some  way  connected  with 
the  request,  but  he  could  not  imagine  what  she  wanted. 
For  two  months  he  had  divided  his  time  between  drilling 
and  being  drilled ;  there  were  new  friendships  to  form  and 
new  confidences  to  exchange;  the  questions  that  mattered 
were  the  etiquette  of  the  mess  and  the  ethics  of  saluting — 
as  they  had  once  been  the  code  and  spirit  of  a  public  school 
and,  later,  the  tone  and  rule  of  decorous  society.  Was  the 
battalion  to  be  sent  out  as  a  whole  or  used  for  drafts  ?  Un- 
doubtedly you  would  secure  greater  unity  and  esprit  de 
corps  by  keeping  it  intact ;  but  the  men  were  not  all  equally 
trained,  and  the  latest  comers  would  set  the  pace  for  all. 
There  were  heated  debates  between  the  rival  sects,  and  the 
colonel  was  claimed  by  both  sides  alternately.  Once  or 
twice  Jack  stepped  aside  and  smiled  at  the  picture  of  him- 
self working  under  a  captain  of  nineteen  and  taking  a 
warm  interest  in  mess  politics.  It  was  hardly  the  end  that 
he  had  imagined;  but  at  least  he  had  worked  himself  into 
iron  condition  until  his  nerves  were  under  control  and  he 
was  too  tired  for  introspection.  Loring's  invitation  was 
the  first  test  of  fortitude;  the  library  recalled  their  debates 
of  other  days,  and,  if  he  went  there  from  friendship,  he 
was  determined  not  to  exhume  something  that  had  been 
killed  at  Chepstow  and  buried  by  the  war. 

"I'm  glad  you  were  able  to  come,"  Loring  began.  "I'll 
say  what  I've  got  to  say  and  get  it  over  as  soon  as  possible. 
I'm  not  doing  this  on  my  own  initiative.  Have  you  seen 
Barbara  lately  ?" 

"Not  since  your  party.  Jim,  I'd  sooner  not  hear  another 
word  on  this  subject " 

"I'm  afraid  you've  got  to,  old  man,  for  my  sake.    She's 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION        261 

in  London  and  she  asked  me  to  give  you  this  with  my  own 
hand." 

He  held  out  a  letter,  and  Jack  looked  at  it  in  silence. 
The  envelope  was  addressed  in  pencil;  the  upright  awk- 
wardness in  some  of  the  characters  told  him  that  it  had 
been  written,  like  so  many  others,  in  bed ;  a  few  words  were 
smudged,  and  this,  with  the  bent  corners,  suggested  that  it 
had  probably  been  composed  some  time  before. 

"I  don't  want  it/'  he  said  after  a  long  hesitation. 

If  the  mere  sight  of  familiar  handwriting  could  hurt 
him,  he  was  resolved  to  take  no  further  risks  with  his  pain- 
fully acquired  fortitude. 

"You  must  take  it,"  said  Loring.  "I  don't  care  what  you 
do  with  it." 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders,  unbuttoned  a  pocket  of  his 
tunic  and  slipped  the  letter  inside,  as  dinner  was  announced. 

"How  soon  are  you  chucking  up  your  staff  job?"  he 
asked,  to  kill  any  further  discussion,  as  they  walked  out  of 
the  library  together. 

When  Jack  returned  to  camp,  Loring  called  on  his  cousin 
in  Berkeley  Square.  House  and  family  were  in  tumult, 
for,  when  the  Abbey  was  handed  over  to  the  War  Office, 
Lord  Crawleigh  was  driven  to  spend  the  autumn  in  London 
and  he  returned  to  find  that  it  was  one  thing  to  urge  his 
younger  servants  into  the  army  and  another  to  be  left  with- 
out a  single  able-bodied  man  to  prepare  for  his  coming. 
His  wife  was  wholly  immersed  in  the  management  of  her 
hospital;  Barbara  was  training  for  her  certificate;  Neave 
and  the  two  younger  boys  had  been  given  commissions  in 
the  Guards,  and  daily  life  was  so  uncomfortable  that  he 
decided  to  share  his  discomfort  with  the  nation  and  to  ex- 
plain the  origin  and  meaning  of  the  war  in  a  series  of  ad- 
dresses throughout  the  country. 

"Well,  Jack  dined  with  me  to-night,"  Loring  began.  "I 
gave  him  the  letter." 


262  LADY  LILITH 

"Yes?" 

"He  didn't  want  to  take  it  at  first,  but  I  told  him  I'd 
promised  to  give  it  him  with  my  own  hand." 

Barbara  was  unnerved  by  waiting,  but  she  contrived  to 
mask  her  curiosity  with  indifference. 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  asked. 

"He  put  it  into  his  pocket." 

"He  didn't  read  it?" 

"Not  then." 

"And  he  didn't  say  anything?    What  did  he  look  like?5' 

"He  was  like  he  always  is;  no  one  would  call  Jack 
demonstrative." 

For  all  her  studied  indifference,  Barbara  shuddered  in- 
voluntarily. 

"I  know.  He  frightens  me  when  he's  like  that,"  she  whis- 
pered. "If  he  ever  flared  up  for  a  moment,  I  should  feel 
that  we  were  more  evenly  matched.  .  .  .  He  will  read  the 
letter?"  she  persisted. 

"My  dear  Babs,  how  can  I  tell?" 

"Oh,  of  course  you  can't,  but  the  waiting's  so  awful," 
she  cried.  "You  know  what  was  in  it  ?  I  kept  my  promise 
1 — the  promise  I  made  on  the  Cross  at  Chepstow.  If  he 
wants  me " 

"Well,  if  he  does?    You  still  don't  love  him?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  fascinates  me.  .  .  .  But  that  doesn't 
matter,  I've  given  him  my  promise " 

"It  seems  to  me  to  matter  very  much/'  Loring  interposed 
drily.  "I've  grown  quite  fond  of  you  lately,  Babs,  and  I 
don't  want  to  see  you  unhappily  married.  Or  him,  either. 
You  say  you  don't  know  whether  you're  in  love  with  him, 
but  there's  a  simple  test :  if  you  were  free  in  every  way  and 
could  choose  among  all  the  men  in  the  world,  would  you 
fly  to  Jack  like  an  arrow  to  a  target  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  think  he  might  make  me  come  to 
him." 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION        263 

"Against  your  will?  Babs,  you've  either  lost  all  your 
personality  or  else  you're  in  love  with  him." 

She  shook  her  head  in  perplexity,  frowning  and  smooth- 
ing out  the  wrinkles  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  against  my  will.  I  can't 
make  out.  He  never  loved  me  as  I  wanted  to  be  loved.  .  - .  . 
I  never  feel  that  Jack  could  be  gentle.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean,  Jim?  There  are  some  people  who  seem  to 
take  loving  for  granted.  They  can't  waste  time  on  the  little 
daily  tendernesses  that  are  the  glorious  great  tender- 
nesses. ..."  Her  voice  faded  away,  and  she  sat  staring 
in  front  of  her  until  a  change  of  thought  made  her  face 
resolute.  "But  it's  not  for  me  to  find  fault.  If  he  wants 
me.  .  .  ." 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could  do  something  to  help,"  said  Lor- 
ing. 

"I  must  just  wait,  I  suppose.  I  wish  I  knew  what  / 
wanted.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  feel  I'm  going  mad,  Jim.  I 
can't  get  rid  of  his  eyes,  I  can't  forget  the  change  that  came 
over  him  when  he  began  to  understand  what  I'd  done.  .  .  . 
Has  he  gone  back  to  camp?  When  d'you  think  he'll 
write  ?" 

"My  dear  girl,  you  might  just  as  well  ask  me  how  long 
the  war's  going  on!  Perhaps  he  won't  write  at  all." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

Loring  sank  lower  into  his  chair  and  stared  at  the  ceiling. 

"I've  been  trying  to  think  how  I  should  feel  in  his  place," 
he  said.  "If  he  was  simply  infatuated  about  you,  he'd  go 
on  believing  in  you  until  you'd  married  some  one  else.  On 
the  other  hand,  he's  ignorant  enough  of  women  still  to 
idealize  them;  and  there's  no  bitterness  like  the  bitterness 
of  your  disappointed  idealist.  He  may  try  to  cut  the  whole 
thing  out  of  his  life;  he  may  tear  your  letter  up  unread, 
he  may  read  it  and  throw  it  in  the  fire  without  answering 
it.  ...  What  are  you  going  to  do  then,  Babs  ?" 


264  LADY  LILITH 

"I  belong  to  him  until  he  throws  me  aside,"  she  answered. 
"On  my  honour  and  oath " 

"I  wish  you  weren't  quite  so  ready  with  your  extrava- 
gant paths,"  he,  interrupted.  "You'll  get  into  trouble  one 
day.  Jephthah  took  a  similar  vow  and  lived  to  regret  it. 
/Well,  Babs,  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  to  straighten 
things  out,  let  me  know." 

He  got  up  and  prepared  to  go.  Barbara  sat  with  her 
hands  pressed  between  her  knees  and  her  head  bent. 

"I  must  wait,"  she  whispered.  "You  go,  Jim ;  I'd  sooner 
be  alone.  You  go !  I'll — just  wait." 

Loring  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  and  then  went  down- 
stairs. He  could  have  sworn  that  she  could  see  her  own 
drooping  head  and  tired  eyes  in  a  mental  looking-glass  and 
was  enjoying  her  doubt  and  misery;  as  likely  as  not,  she 
would  describe  it  to  Jack,  if  they  met.  "Jim  went  away.  I 
said,  'You  go.  I  must  wait/  And  I  waited.  ..."  A 
little  of  Jephthah's  daughter,  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  Monna 
Vanna  and  Sarah  Curran;  tragic  pathos,  tragic  constancy, 
tragic  hopelessness.  By  giving  her  the  cue  of  Jephthah's 
daughter,  he  had  helped  to  destroy  the  illusion  of  sin- 
cerity. ... 

Barbara  sat  by  herself  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  rang 
for  her  maid  and  began  to  undress.  She  had  never  dreamed 
that  Jack  would  not  answer  her  letter.  Though  written 
on  the  night  after  she  had  failed  to  find  him  at  the  Temple, 
she  had  kept  it  locked  away  for  nearly  two  months,  afraid 
to  send  it  and  unable  to  say  why  she  was  afraid.  Then 
Sonia  Dainton  had  called  on  her  and,  standing  by  the  win- 
dow with  her  face  averted,  had  talked  of  Jim's  approach- 
ing marriage.  "I  hear  he's  going  out  to  the  front  fairly 
soon,"  she  began.  "I  want  to  part  friends  with  him — in 
case  anything  happens.  D'you  think  he'd  see  me?"  "You 
can  only  try,"  answered  Barbara.  That  was  a  fortnight 
ago;  some  weeks  later,  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding,  Sonia 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION       265 

called  at  Loring  House  to  beg  and  to  receive  forgiveness. 
In  the  meantime  Barbara  profited  by  her  own  advice  to 
force  herself  into  communication  with  Jack.  It  was  all  that 
she  could  do,  if  she  hoped  ever  again  to  know  self-respect 
or  even  a  quiet  conscience.  She  could  make  amends  and 
give  him  his  chance  to  embrace  or  spurn  her ;  that  he  would 
ignore  her  she  had  never  imagined. 

The  hospital  at  the  Abbey  opened  three  days  after  her 
conversation  with  Jim ;  and  Barbara  at  once  volunteered  for 
night  work.  Ever  since  the  party  at  Chepstow  she  had  been 
unable  to  rest ;  Jack's  haggard  face  and  fixed  stare  invaded 
her  dreams,  and,  when  she  slept,  it  was  to  wake  up  repeat- 
ing some  phrase  that  she  had  used  to  him.  By  going  to  bed 
in  daylight  and  lying  with  the  blinds  up  and  the  sun  on  her 
face,  she  never  wholly  lost  consciousness;  her  brain  was 
sentinel  enough  to  rouse  her,  if  she  began  to  dream  of  the 
banqueting-hall  at  Loring  Castle.  .  .  . 

When  Jim's  wedding  took  place,  she  wrote  to  offer  him 
good  wishes  and  added  in  a  postscript: 

"I  have  had  no  news." 

He  wrote  back, 

"I  have  not  seen  him  since  that  night.  In  a  case  like  this, 
isn't  silence  itself  an  answer?  George  heard  that  he  was 
possibly  going  out  with  a  draft,  but  I  believe  this  lias  been 
contradicted.  Is  th-ere  anything  I  can  do?  I'll  try  to  get  hold 
of  him,  if  you  like,  and  ask  him  what  he's  up  to,  but,  while 
I  don't  mind  exposing  myself  to  a  rebuff,  I  don't  see  myself 
leading  you  by  the  hand  to  have  your  face  slapped  by  any 
one.  .  .  ." 

"Thanks,  it's  best  to  do  nothing,"  Barbara  answered.  "I 
should  be  hurt  if  he  thought  I  was  forcing  myself  on  him.'* 

At  the  beginning  of  1915  Jim  wrote  on  his  own  initiative. 

"I  hear  Jack's  gone  abroad.  George  is  my  authority;  I 
didn't  see  him  myself.  I  think  you  may  feel  that  this 
squares  the  account.  On  the  whole  I'm  glad;  and,  if  you 


266  LADY  LILITH 

feel  as  you  did  when  last  we  discussed  this,  it's  the  best 
thing  for  you." 

A  few  weeks  later  Jim  went  abroad  himself.  So  long  as 
he  was  a  channel  of  communication,  Barbara  waved  away 
the  necessity  of  deciding  what  to  do  if  she  were  left  with 
what  he  called  a  "cheque  drawn  but  not  presented."  With- 
out him,  loneliness  sapped  her  courage ;  and  she  wrote  three 
extravagant  letters,  which,  in  the  act  of  writing,  she  knew 
that  she  would  never  send.  Then  she  tried  to  forget.  Then 
she  centred  her  hopes  on  seeing  him,  when  he  came  home 
on  leave.  .  .  . 

A  week  before  he  was  expected  in  England,  Amy  Loring 
called  in  Berkeley  Square  to  say  that  Jim  was  "missing." 
George  Oakleigh  had  the  news  from  the  War  Office,  and 
every  one  might  be  told  except  Violet,  who  was  expecting  a 
baby. 

"At  this  rate  I  sometimes  wonder  who  will  be  left  alive," 
Lady  Crawleigh  wrote  to  Barbara.  "Sonia  has  had  one  of 
her  brothers  kitted  and  the  other  wounded.  Valentine  Ar- 
den  has  been  killed.  Young  O'Rane  has  come  back  slightly 
wounded  but  without  his  sight.  No  one  can  ever  take  their 
places.  They  are  all  equally  splendid.  .  .  .  Poor  Mr.  Arden 
and  Jack  Summertown  .  .  .  Though  a  man  may  have  been 
frivolous  before,  that  does  not  seem  to  keep  him  from  shew- 
ing his  true  ivorth  when  the  occasion  arises.  .  .  .  The  war 
has  been  a  great  opportunity.  .  .  " 

Barbara's  first  thought  was  that,  if  Jim  too  were  killed, 
there  was  one  person  the  less  to  share  her  secret.  She  was 
aghast  to  find  herself  even  playing  with  such  consolation; 
but,  as  the  weeks  of  silence  became  months,  she  lost  hope. 
With  every  new  death  or  mutilation  she  was  becoming  less 
and  less  equal  to  the  great  opportunity.  Though  she  could 
work  as  hard  as  any  one,  she  came  no  nearer  to  justifying 
herself  or  making  atonement.  The  officers  in  the  hospital 
sometimes  refused  to  let  her  do  anything  for  them,  because 
she  had  already  worn  herself  out  with  doing  so  much,  but 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION        267 

she  was  never  tired  enough  to  forget.  Until  she  had  pla- 
cated Providence,  she  would  not  be  allowed  to  forget.  And 
Providence  rejected  her  offering. 

In  the  summer  she  heard  that  Sonia  Dainton  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married  to  David  O'Eane. 

"He  and  I  were  sort  of  engaged  when  I  was  sixteen" 
Sonia  began.  "Of  course,  neither  of  us  took  it  seriously.  At 
least  I  didn't,  as  soon  as  I  was  old  enough  to  think  at  all; 
perliaps  HE  did.  He  SAYS  that  he  always  knew  he  was  going 
to  marry  me  and  that  for  all  practical  purposes  we  WERE 
married  from  the  twie  when  I  was  sixteen.  When  I  was  en- 
gaged to  Tony  Crabtree — I  wasn't  properly  engaged;  I  don't 
believe  I  ever  thought  I  should  marry  him;  but  I  was  very 
young,  and  it  was  exciting  to  be  engaged.  I  believe  NOW 
that  Tony  only  wanted  to-  marry  me  because  he  thought  I 
should  be  such  an  asset  to  him  in  his  career;  thought  of 
course  he  was  very  much  in  love  with  me — David  says  that 
he  knew  all  about  it  and  didn't  trouble  himself  more  than  if 
his  wife  were  flirting  with  a  man  at  dinner.  Poor  darling,  he 
was  very  unhappy  about  Jim,  because  he  thought  I  might 
really  marry  him;  but  yet — he  says — at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  always  knew  I  shouldn't.  Aren't  men  ridiculously 
vain?  But,  Babs,  isn't  it  wonderful  ta  think  of  him  waiting 
all  those  years,  standing  aside,  never  trying  to  influence  me, 
always  quite  certain  that  ONE  day  he'd  marry  me?  Some 
time  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story  and  how  he  came  into  the 
HEART  of  Austria,  when  war'd  been  declared,  to  rescue  me. 
He  Zi'as  terribly  wounded  at  the  beginning  of  this  year,  and 
the  doctors  say  there's  no  possibility  of  his  ever  getting  his 
sight  back.  You  can  imagine  what  that  means;  but  he  says 
he'd  go  through  it  all  again,  if  that  were  the  only  way  of  get- 
ting me!  George  told  me  that,  when  David  was  delirious  in 
hospital,  he  kept  calling  out  my  name  night  and  day.  It's 
wonderful  to  be  loved  like  that! 

"We  shan't  have  any  rn&ney  worth  speaking  of,  and 
'darling  David  thinks  he's  committing  the  most  awful  crime 


268  LADY  LILITH 

in  wanting  to  marry  me  at  all  '"A  blind  man  with  no  vis- 
ible means  of  subsistence  ought  to  be  quietly  knocked  on 
the  head,'  he  says.  When  he  got  back  to  England,  he 
wouldn't  come  near  me,  he  wouldn't  let  me  come  near  him; 
he  says  he  couldn't  trust  himself.  And,  poor  lamb!  I'm 
getting  quite  tired  of  hearing  him  say  that  I'm  throwing 
myself  away  and  that  I  MUSTN'T  marry  him.  .  .  .  But,  then, 
when  he  tells  me  that,  ever  since  he  was  blinded,  he's  never 
seen  anything  except  me,  there's  no  arguing  about  it,  is 
there? 

"He's  gone  back  to  Melton  as  a  temporary  master,  and 
we're  going  to  be  married  in  the  school  chapel,  I  should 
insist  on  your  being  one  of  my  bridesmaids,  if  I  were  hav- 
ing any,  but  ifs  going  to  be  the  quietest  wedding  in  the 
world.  But  I  want  you  to  think  of  me,  Babs  darling,  and 
offer  me  your  blessing.  I'm  so  very  happy.  .  .  " 

Barbara  read  the  letter  twice  and  tried  to  forget  it.  Sonia 
could  not  tell  her  too  often  how  many  men  had  been  in  love 
with  her  and  how  much  David  adored  her;  there  was  little 
mention  of  love  on  the  other  side,  only  the  eagerly  snatched 
tributes  to  a  colossal  vanity.  Every  one  knew  that  she  had 
no  heart.  She  justified  herself  and  explained  away  her 
early  engagements  and  broken  promises  with  a  light  brush. 
Women  would  justify  themselves,  whatever  they  did !  And 
Sonia  was  marrying  with  both  eyes  on  the  auditorium,  lis- 
tening delightedly  to  the  protests  that  she  was  wasting  her- 
self. She  was  enjoying  her  sense  of  reckless  generosity; 
and,  perhaps,  like  Val  Arden  and  the  others  who  hoped  to 
atone  by  one  sacrifice  for  an  empty  life,  she  would  welcome 
the  sacrifice  even  without  the  audience.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  heartless,  horrible  letter.  If  Barbara  had  been 
invited  to  the  wedding,  she  would  have  refused  to  go.  She 
wished  that  she  had  been  invited.  .  .  .  Yet  Sonia  was  only 
doing  what  she  had  failed  to  do.  Jack's  devotion  was  no 
less  than  O'Rane's,  and  she  had  thrown  it  away;  she  was 
trying  to  atone  for  everything  in  one  sacrifice,  as  Sonia  had 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION        269 

already  done.  She  might  have  been  happy,  like  Sonia ;  she 
might  have  outstripped  Sonia  by  discovering  a  heart 
Every  one  was  falling  in  love  and  marrying ;  it  was  time  to 
discover  a  heart.  Val  Arden  told  her,  when  she  was  sixteen, 
that  this  w^ould  be  her  greatest  emotion.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  Barbara  asked  for  leave  to  go  up  to  London 
and  choose  a  wedding-present.  She  avoided  her  family,  for 
her  looks  did  not  court  inspection  and  she  could  not  afford 
to  be  torn  away  from  the  hospital.  The  life  at  Crawleigh 
Abbey  suited  her  too  well  to  be  disturbed;  though  some- 
times, as  she  came  off  duty  and  undressed  in  broad  daylight, 
she  wondered  when  and  how  her  strength  would  break. 
The  other  nurses  never  wearied  of  telling  her  that  she  looked 
ill;  the  mirror  shewed  that  her  body  was  wasting,  even  if 
she  had  not  felt  that  even  her  stockings  hung  loose.  And 
there  was  a  cough  which  had  come  mysteriously  and  as 
mysteriously  refused  to  go. 

On  her  arrival  at  Waterloo  she  telephoned  to  George  Oak- 
ley and  invited  him  fo  lunch  with  her.  He,  if  any  one, 
would  have  news,  he  was  fond  of  her;  and,  ever  since 
Sonia's  engagement,  she  had  felt  that  something  was 
wanting  until  she  commanded  an  equal  devotion  and  gave 
an  equal  surrender.  Of  her,  too,  people  were  saying  that 
she  had  no  heart ;  she  was  ready  and  more  than  ready  to  fall 
in  love. 

"My  child,  you  do  look  a  little  wreck,"  George  exclaimed, 
when  she  called  for  him  at  the  Admiralty.  "This  is  a  sad 
business  about  Jim.  I  was  very  sorry  for  you  all." 

"You  don't  think  there's  any  hope?" 

"I  tell  his  mother  and  sister  that  he's  sure  to  turn  up.  If 
you  ask  me  whether  I  believe  what  I  say  ...  It  u  a  holo- 
caust and  a  half!  O'Rane,  Jim,  Tom  Dainton,  Summer- 
town — Lady  Maitland's  eldest  boy  is  back  wounded.  And 
with  the  rest  you  feel  it's  only  a  question  of  time.  Val 
Arden  lunched  with  me  three  days  before  he  was  killed,  and 
I  felt  that  he  wanted  to  be  killed.  The  thing  had  got  on 


27o  LADY  LILITH 

his  nerves  till  he  knew  he  couldn't  stand  much  more  of  it 
without  going  out  of  his  mind.  Other  people,  again,  seem  to 
take  the  war  like  a  game  of  rather  irregular  football."  He 
hesitated  and  then  tried  to  go  on  without  allowing  a  change 
to  come  into  his  voice.  "Jack  Waring  came  to  see  me  last, 
week,  and  I'd  swear  that  he  was  enjoying  the  whole  thing." 

Barbara's  pulses  hammered  at  sound  of  the  name,  and 
she  dreaded  to  seem  too  nonchalant. 

"How  was  he?"  she  asked,  though  it  was  rather  of  Val 
Arden  that  she  was  thinking.  Perhaps  Jack,  too,  welcomed 
the  chance  of  having  everything  ended  for  him.  She  re- 
membered that  his  eyes  had  suddenly  shone,  when  George 
cam.e,  grave- faced,  into  the  banqueting-hall ;  he  was  making 
plans  for  taking  a  commission  three  days  before  war  was 
declared  and  three  minutes  after  he  left  her.  It  was  in 
truth  a  new  emotion  to  feel  that  she  might  have  driven  him 
to  constructive  suicide.  .  .  . 

"Positively  keen  to  get  back,"  said  George.  "Did- 
n't ...  ?"  He  was  going  to  ask,  in  some  surprise,  whether 
she  had  not  seen  him ;  the  ball  at  Chepstow  seemed  to  have 
healed  any  breach  between  them.  But  it  was  not  his  busi- 
ness. "Your  mother  tells  me  that  your  hospital  is  being 
closed,"  he  substituted. 

"Closed?"  Barbara  echoed  in  dismay. 

"The  War  Office  finds  it  difficult  to  work." 

"But  mother  never  told  me!  Oh,  George!  that's  too 
awful !  I  can't  get  on  without  it.  I  must  have  something 
to  keep  me  busy.  If  I  start  thinking " 

His  eyes  opened  so  wide  that  she  checked  herself. 

"My  dear,  the  war's  getting  on  your  nerves,"  he  said  sig- 
nificantly. "Doesn't  Lady  Crawleigh ?" 

Barbara  blamed  herself  bitterly  for  letting  her  voice  get 
out  of  control ;  it  was  always  happening.  .  .  . 

"George,  promise  me  you  won't  say  you've  seen  me !"  she 
begged.  "I  didn't  tell  them  I  was  going  to  be  in  London. 
I  know  I'm  disgracing  you  by  looking  like  this,  but,  if 


271 

mother  saw  me,  she'd  take  me  away;  and  I  should  die,  if  I 
didn't  have  work  to  do." 

"I  see.  Well,  I'm  not  a  doctor,  but  you'll  die  remarkably 
soon  at  your  present  rate.  D'you  know  what  I'm  going  to 
do  when  we  leave  here?" 

"Drop  me  at  Cartier's,  I  hope." 

"If  you  like.  And  that's  handy  for  Berkeley  Square.  I'm 
going  to  your  mother  and  I'm  going  to  tell  her  what  I  think 
of  your  general  condition." 

"George,  if  you  do  that,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again! 
And  really,  you  know,  it  isn't  any  business  of  yours." 

"Except  that  I  happen  to  be  very  fond  of  you.  And,  if 
you  get  ill  ...  Dear  Barbara,  to  please  me,  will  you  see 
your  doctor  before  you  go  back  to  hospital?" 

Barbara  had  so  long  looked  on  George  as  a  kindly  and 
comfortable  bit  of  universal  family  furniture  that  she  was 
startled  by  the  unexpected  softening  of  his  voice.  Perhaps 
he,  too,  felt  that  it  was  time  to  cultivate  a  heart  and  to  fall 
in  love.  She  smiled  with  an  approach  to  happiness.  Any 
hint  of  tenderness  in  a  man's  voice  made  her  like  a  flower 
opening  its  petals  to  the  sun. 

"D'you  like  me,  George  ?"  she  asked. 

"Not  when  you're  looking  like  this.  Now  I  only  want  to 
slap  you  and  send  you  to  bed.  Will  you  go  to  your  doctor  ?" 

"If  you  like,  I'll  say  that  I'm  going  to  him "  she  be- 
gan. 

"That's  all  I  want,"  he  interrupted.  "If  you  gave  a  prom- 
ise, however  extravagant,  I  should  know  that  you'd  always 
keep  it." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  and  looked  swiftly  away. 

On  the  day  after  her  return  to  the  Abbey,  the  hospital 
was  filled  with  rumour  and  gossip.  No  new  cases  were  to 
be  taken;  and,  as  soon  as  the  last  bed  was  empty,  com- 
mandant and  doctors,  nurses  and  orderlies  were  to  be  trans- 
ferred to  the  new  government  hospital  at  Slmbury.  Lady 
Crawleigh  came  down  without  warning  to  arrange  for  the 


2?2  LADY  LILITH 

reconversion  of  the  house.  In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
she  went  into  Barbara's  room  to  find  her  with  drooping 
mouth  and  wet  eyes,  crying  in  her  sleep.  The  commandant 
was  flushed  from  her  office  and  invited  to  explain ;  without 
waiting  for  the  hospital  to  be  closed,  Barbara  was  person- 
ally conducted  to  London  and  sent  under  the  care  of  Lord 
Crawleigh's  sister  to  the  sea.  She  made  no  resistance ;  she 
did  not  even  tell  her  parents  that  she  was  twenty-one  and 
that  she  refused  to  be  ordered  about.  She  seemed  no  longer 
to  matter  either  to  herself  or  to  any  one  else.  .  .  . 

Before  coming  off  duty  for  the  last  time,  she  said  good- 
bye to  each  of  her  patients  and  found  herself  presented  at 
the  first  bed  with  a  pendant. 

"We  had  to  get  it  in  rather  a  hurry,"  explained  the 
spokesman.  "But  we  hope  you'll  like  it.  We  all  wish  you 
weren't  going,  Lady  Barbara.  It's  not  worth  being  in 
hospital  without  you." 

"You  dears,  /  wish  I  wasn't  going,"  Barbara  cried  with 
a  quaver  in  her  voice.  "Good-bye,  and  bless  you  all !  No, 
I  won't  let  you  kiss  my  hand !  I'll  kiss  yours." 

She  walked  from  bed  to  bed,  smiling  until  she  reached  the 
door;  then  her  composure  deserted  her,  and  she  ran  out 
crying.  It  was  her  fate  to  make  people  fall  in  love  with 
her,  whether  she  tried  or  not — her  fate,  too,  never  to  be  in 
love  with  any  one  herself.  Jim,  of  course,  would  have  called 
this  another  experiment  in  emotion;  he  would  have  been 
very  scornful  about  the  presentation  and  her  tearful  fare- 
well, reminding  her  that  Florence  Nightingale,  her  great 
prototype,  had  her  shadow  kissed,  as  she  passed  down  the 
ward.  And  next  day,  as  she  might  almost  have  foreseen, 
there  were  photographs  of  her  in  uniform :  "Lady  Barbara 
Neave,  who  has  been  doing  splendid  war-work  at  Lady 
Crawleigh's  hospital  in  Hampshire."  For  the  first  time  in 
her  life  she  wanted  to  be  left  alone  and  unnoticed,  so  that 
she  could  get  into  a  train  or  walk  about  in  London  without 
being  recognized. 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION        273 

Under  the  hourly  care  of  a  doctor  she  was  no  longer  al- 
lowed to  keep  herself  awake  for  fear  of  dreaming.  But 
there  was  nothing  to  occupy  her  by  day,  and  she  brooded 
eternally  on  the  workings  of  Jack's  mind.  A  letter  from 
Sonia  started  the  train. 

"Babs  darling,  the  bracelet  is  divine!  Thank  you  ever  so 
much  for  it!  I  didn't  write  before,  because  we've  been  so 
frightfully  busy.  I  expect  you  saw  tfwt  we  were  married 
last  week.  Babs,  I'm  so  happy!  I\m  at  PEACE  now.  With 
David  I  feel  so  secure.  I  always  USED  to  think  that  I  should 
feel  circumscribed,  but  the  COMPANIONSHIP'S  so  wonderful 
that  I  don't  want  anything  more.  At  least,  I  want  to  have 
children — lots  and  lots  of  them;  and  I  want  David  to  go  on 
loving  me,  as  he  does  now;  and  I  want  it  always  to  be  sum- 
mer. But  I  wouldn't  change  David  for  any  one  in  the 
world;  and  I  wouldn't  be  NOT  married. 

"Looking  back  on  it  all,  I  don't  REGRET  anything  and  I 
suppose  I  enjoyed  myself,  but  it  seems  rather  hollow  now. 
We  shall  lead  a  very  quiet,  humdrum  life  and  we  shall  be 
frightfully  poor,  but  I  think  that's  where  the  PEACE  comes 
in.  If  I'd  married  poor  Jian — though  I  know  he'd  have  been 
the  most  adoring  husband — I  don't  believe  the  privilege  of 
being  'the  beautiful  Lady  Lorincf  (if  anybody  had  troubled 
to  call  me  that!)  would  have  compensated  all  the  ceremony 
and  fuss.  I  never  felt  a  thousandth  part  of  the  love  for 
Jim  that  I  feel  for  David.  I  suppose  tJiafs  the  difference. 
All  I  ask  now  is  to  have  David's  love  for  ever  and  to  give 
him  every  ounce  of  mine  and  to  make  our  lives  one.  It's 
a  silly  thing  to  say,  but,  before  I  married,  I  never  imagined 
how  extraordinarily  two  lives  DO  become  one.  We  each  of 
us  know  wh-at  the  other's  thinking  of;  we  carry  on  conver- 
sations where  we  only  seem  to  SPEAK  ow-e  sentence  in  three 
— everything  else  is  understood.  My  dear,  we  are  so  happy! 
You  know  how  I  love  you,  Babs;  I  only  hope  that  you'll  be 
as  happy  as  I  am." 

For  all  its  irritating  italics  and  ill-defined  emotion,  the 


274  LADY  LILITH 

letter  unsettled  Barbara,  She,  too,  would  like  to  have  chil- 
dren—"lots  and  lots  of  them";  the  papers  pretended  that 
this  was  an  age-old  world-instinct  and  that  Woman — in  the 
abstract — was  being  impelled  by  an  abstract  Nature  to  re- 
pair the  life- wastage  of  the  war;  hence  they  deduced  the 
absurd  scandal  of  the  "war-babies,"  thus  they  explained  the 
abundant  crop  of  "war  weddings."  Barbara's  intelligence 
rebelled  against  world-instincts  as  much  as  against  abstract 
Woman  and  abstract  Nature.  She  wanted  children  because 
she  wanted  something  of  her  own  to  love,  and  her  untapped 
reservoir  of  devotion  had  overflowed  when  she  was  nursing 
the  boys  who  pretended  that  nothing  was  the  matter,  when 
she  could  see  their  eyelids  flickering  with  pain.  She  yearned 
to  lay  their  heads  on  her  breast  and  tell  them  to  cry  because 
it  would  do  them  good  and  because  she  wanted  to  comfort 
them. 

And  she  did  not  see  why  Sonia  should  have  so  much  hap- 
piness .  .  .  "We  were  married.  .  .  .  We've  been  so  fright- 
fully busy.  .  .  .  We  shall  lead  a  very  quiet,  humdrum  life 
and  we  shall  be  frightfully  poor.  .  .  .  We  each  of  us  know 
what  the  otlier's  thinking  of.  .  .  ."  Barbara  writhed  at  the 
possessive,  participating  plural.  She  was  ready  to  be  poor 
and  to  live  a  quiet  humdrum  life,  if  she  could  share  it ;  she 
appreciated  the  peace  of  marriage,  so  often  underlined  by 
Sonia,  because  it  was  what  she  hungered  to  feel.  Eight 
months  had  passed  since  Jack  went  abroad,  twelve  since 
they  parted.  When  she  heard  that  he  had  been  home  on 
leave  without  communicating  with  her,  she  felt  sure  that  he 
would  never  communicate  with  her;  but,  when  the  war 
ended,  she  must  tender  her  promise  again.  In  the  meantime 
she  might  fall  in  love  with  some  one  else.  .  .  . 

The  memory  of  Jack  in  the  banqueting-hall  at  Chepstow 
was  replaced  by  a  picture  in  which  he  stood,  silent  and  for- 
bidding, between  her  and  some  one  whom  she  strove  pas- 
sionately to  reach.  The  image  haunted  her  until  she  jetti- 
soned her  last  fragments  of  pride  and  wrote  to  him  again. 


A  NOTE  OF  INTERROGATION        275 

"1  sent  you  a  letter  nearly  a  year  ago  and  I  have  never 
had  an  answer,"  she  began.  "I  don't  think  you  can  have 
read  it,  because  it  would  be  such  a  horribly  cruel  way  of 
punishing  me,  if  you  read  it  and  paid  no  attention.  I  don't 
think  I  asked  for  mercy  or  forgiveness,  because  I  didn't 
deserve  either;  but,  though  I  behaved  unforgivably,  I  DIDN'T 
appreciate  until  it  was  too*  late  quite  what  I  was  doing  and 
quite  how  much  you  loved  me.  I  don't  want  you  to  think 
I'm  EXCUSING  myself;  I  want  you  to  understand  that  per- 
haps 1  do  appreciate  rather  better  now  and  that  I'm  ready, 
as  I  was  then,  to  do  anything  in  the  world  that  you  ask. 
I've  taken  a  solemn  oath.  You  may  accept  it  generously 
or  refuse  it  generously;  or,  if  you  like,  you  can  just  hu- 
miliate me* — you  know  I'm  vain  and  you  know  thafs  where 
you  can  punish  me  best.  Don't  play  with  me!  Sometimes 
I  think  I'm  going  out  of  my  mind.  I  want  you  to  be  just 
and,  if  you  COM,  to  be  generous;  it  will  be  generosity,  if 
you  are  able  to  say  that  you  forgive  me,  and  it  will  be  jus- 
tice, if  you  remember  that  I  apologize  and  ask  to  be  for- 
given and  offer  to  do  anything  that  you  want — and  that 
there's  nothing  more  I  CAN  do.  I  don't  DESERVE  considera- 
tion, but  I  need  it." 

Barbara  knew  that  she  was  too  uncertain  of  herself  to 
trust  her  own  judgement,  and  the  letter  was  put  aside  until 
her  mood  of  abject  humility  had  passed.  When  she  read  it 
again,  the  terms  of  her  own  abasement  set  her  cheeks  flam- 
ing, but  there  was  no  other  way  of  winning  peace.  She 
allowed  five  days  for  the  letter  to  reach  him  and  another  five 
days  for  a  reply.  For  the  first  two  nights  she  never  slept; 
on  the  third  day  Dr.  Gaisford  was  summoned,  and  that 
afternoon  she  was  despatched  to  the  sea  for  another  three 
weeks'  rest.  While  there,  the  tenth  day  came  and  went 
without  any  reply.  Barbara  added  an  eleventh,  because  let- 
ters lost  a  day  in  forwarding.  It  was  no  less  barren  than 
its  predecessors,  but  news  came  in  an  unexpected  form  on 
the  twelfth. 


276  LADY  LILITH 

"George  has  been  dining,"  wrote  Lady  Crawleigh,  and 
I'm  sorry  to  say  that  he  was  once  again  the  bearer  of  bad 
news.  Poor  Jack  Waring  is  the  latest.  He  is  reported  \miss- 
ing.  George  had  it  from  the  family,  though  it  hasn't  ap- 
peared in  the  papers  as  yet,  and  he  told  us  in  case  we 
wanted  to  send  a  line  of  sympathy.  I  don't  know  Mrs.  War- 
ing, of  course,  but  I  felt  I  had  to  tell  h&w  sorry  we  all  were. 
She  replied  at  once  ^vith  what  I  thought  was  a  very  brave 
letter.  Ifs  a  great  shock,  but  she's  quite  convinced  that 
he's  all  right.  Well,  I'm  afraid  that,  after  our  dear  Jim's 
death,  I  don't  put  any  faith  in  these  'missing1  cases.  .  .  ." 

Before  she  got  to  the  end  of  her  mother's  letter,  Barbara 
knew  that  her  first  and  strongest  feeling  was  relief,  though 
she  dared  not  put  it  into  words.  She  wondered  for  the 
thousandth  time  why  she  had  allowed  Jack  to  gain  so  strong 
an  influence  over  her,  then  ceased  wondering  for  fear  of 
persuading  herself  that  perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  loved 
him.  .  .  .  And,  if  there  were  immortal  souls,  if  a  man  died 
with  a  lie  to  God  still  unexpiated  .  .  . 

On  her  return  to  London  she  sought  details  from  Oak- 
leigh,  but  he  could  only  tell  her  that  the  company  had  been 
almost  entirely  wiped  out.  Two  subalterns  were  reported 
to  be  prisoners ;  but  the  Warings  had  received  no  news  of 
Jack,  nor  did  the  subalterns  mention  him. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  gone,  too,"  George  sighed.  Then  he  took 
her  hand  and  pressed  it  gently.  "I  can't  say  anything  that 
will  do  any  good " 

"When  will  they  know  for  certain  ?"  Barbara  interrupted. 
She  was  shocked  to  find  him  treating  this  as  her  exclusive, 
personal  loss. 

"Well,  you  never  know  for  certain  until  some  one  reports 
that  he's  actually  seen  him  dead.  That,  of  course,  was  what 
happened  with  Jim.  Until  then,  I  suppose,  one  is  justified 
in  hoping.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE 

"Why,  which  of  those  who  say  they  disbelieve, 
Your  clever  people,  but  has  dreamed  his  dream, 
Caught  his  coincidence,  stumbled  on  his  fact 
He  can't  explain,  (he'll  tell  you  smilingly) 
Which  he's  too  much  of  a  philosopher 
To  count  as  supernatural,  indeed, 
So  calls  a  puzzle  and  problem,  proud  of  it 
Bidding  you  still  be  on  your  guard,  you  know, 
Because  one  fact  don't  make  a  system  stand, 
Nor  prove  this  an  occasional  escape 
Of  spirit  beneath  the  matter:  that's  the  way! 
Just  so  wjld  Indians  picked  up,  piece  by  piece, 
The  fact  in  California,  the  fine  gold 
That  underlay  the  gravel — hoarded  these, 
But  never  made  a  system  stand,  nor  dug! 
So  wise  men  hold  out  in  each  hollowed  palm 
A  handful  of  experience,  sparkling  fact 
They  can't  explain ;  and  since  their  rest  of  life 
Is  all  explainable,  what  proof  in  this?" 

ROBERT  BROWNING:    'MR.  SLUDGE,  "THE  MEDIUM."' 

IT  was  not  until  his  name  appeared  in  the  Roll  pf  Honour 
as  "missing"  that  Barbara  appreciated  how  eagerly  dis- 
cussed she  and  Jack  had  been.  The  discreet  sympathy  of 
her  relations  would  have  been  bewildering  if  Lady  Knight- 
rider  had  not  explained  it. 

"I  hurried  round  the  moment  I  had  the  news !  My  dar- 
ling child,  you've  got  to  be  very  brave!"  she  faltered.  "I 
know  what  you  and  Jack  were  to  each  other." 

"Aunt  Kathleen,  I  don't  think  I  can  talk  about  this,"  Bar- 
bara interrupted  quietly. 

"No  .  .  .  ?  It  sometimes  helps.  I  was  always  very  fond 
of  dear  Jack,  and  you  know  how  I  love  you!  But  I  only 
came  to  tell  you  that  you  musn't  give  up  hope " 

"Thank  you,  dear!" 

277 


278  LADY  LILITH 

Barbara  realized  suddenly  that  she  was  being  forced  into 
an  assumed  intimacy  which  would  have  been  comic  at  any 
other  time.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to  begin  explaining 
to  Lady  Knightrider. 

"Did  you  see  him  when  he  was  home  on  leave  ?"  her  aunt 
continued  with  the  persistency  of  one  who,  having  come  to 
harrow  and  to  be  harrowed,  did  not  propose  to  be  baulked. 

"I've  not  seen  him  since  that  time  a  year  ago." 

"Ah,  no!  You've  both  been  so  busy.  His  poor  par- 
ents  " 

"They're  the  people  to  be  sorry  for,"  said  Barbara. 

"Darling,  you're  quite  wonderful!" 

Barbara  had  used  the  words  to  deflect  the  conversation 
from  herself,  but  her  aunt  gave  her  credit  for  such  stoicism 
that  she  took  a  step  towards  the  door  for  fear  that  in  an- 
other moment  she  would  break  into  a  scream.  Lady 
Knightrider  followed  her,  and  in  the  hall  they  met  George 
Oakleigh,  embarrassed  and  trying  to  carry  off  his  embar- 
rassment with  an  air  of  earnest  bustle. 

"I'm  absolutely  at  a  loose  end  to-night,  Barbara,"  he 
began.  "I  believe  somebody  must  have  made  peace  or  some- 
thing; the  Admiralty's  not  been  as  slack  as  this  since  the 
first  day  of  the  war.  I  wondered  whether  you'd  care  to 
come  and  have  dinner  somewhere." 

"It's  sweet  of  you,  George,  but  I've  promised  to  dine  with 
Aunt  Eleanor  and  Amy.  Is  to-morrow  any  good  to  you?" 

"I  believe  I'm  dining  out,  but  I  can  scratch  that.  Yes, 
to-morrow.  I'll  come  and  pick  you  up  about  eight.  Now  I 
must  simply  fly!" 

"Back  to  work?    I  thought  things  were  so  slack?" 

"M'yes,  I  said  that,  didn't  I  ?" 

"And  it  served  its  purpose.  They'll  be  slack  whenever  I 
say  that  I  want  you ;  and  you'll  sit  up  half  the  night  after- 
wards. Thank  you,  George.  But  I  wish  you  didn't  make 
me  feel  so  horribly  unworthy  of  your  sweetness." 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     279 

He  turned  away  and  fidgetted  with  the  badge  of  his  cap. 

"  'Sweetness'  be  blowed !  This  war's  such  a  ghastly  busi- 
ness. .  .  .  Sometimes  one  wants  a  little  companionship. 
I'm  glad  you  can  come  to-morrow.  Keep  a  brave  heart, 
Barbara." 

It  seemed  sacrilegious  to  accept  so  much  sympathy,  and, 
as  he  hurried  into  Berkeley  Street,  she  was  tempted  to  run 
after  him  and  explain.  Once  she  read  of  some  one  who 
murdered  a  man  and  went  to  the  widowed  mother  to  con- 
fess his  crime;  his  delicacy  in  telling  her  of  the  death 
caused  him  to  be  regarded  as  her  son's  dearest  friend,  and, 
when  the  murder  went  undiscovered,  the  murderer  ac- 
cepted the  situation  and  attended  the  funeral  as  chief 
mourner,  with  the  widowed  mother  leaning  on  his  arm. 
...  If  Lady  Knightrider  and  George  fancied  that  she 
had  loved  Jack,  she  must  accept  the  situation;  it  might  be 
sacrilegious,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  if  any  one  said  "Did 
you  love  Jack  Waring?"  she  could  not  honestly  give  a 
categorical  "No."  .  .  . 

And  there  would  be  more  sympathy — and  sacrilege — at 
dinner.  Barbara  knew  that  she  had  only  been  invited  that 
Lady  Loring  and  Amy  might  try  to  comfort  her.  Neither 
referred  to  Jack  by  name ;  but  they  were  more  gently  affec- 
tionate than  usual,  and  she  was  left  to  discuss  him  or  not, 
as  she  liked.  Lady  Loring  told  of  the  steps  which  she  had 
taken  and  the  offices  which  she  had  approached  to  gain  tid- 
ings of  her  son.  George  had  set  enquiries  on  foot  through 
the  Spanish  and  American  Embassies,  the  Vatican  and  The 
Hague;  but  they  were  barely  instituted,  when  the  War 
Office  received  indisputable  evidence  of  death. 

"Connie  Maitland  was  very  anxious  for  me  to  go  to  a 
clairvoyant,"  Amy  put  in.  "She  says  Mrs.  Savage  in 
Knightsbridge  is  wonderful.  When  her  boy  was  wounded — 
before  she  heard  about  it — she  had  a  sort  of  presentiment 
that  something  was  wrong,  so  she  went  there,  and  Mrs.  Sav- 


28o  LADY  LILITH 

age  told  her  that  he  was  wounded  but  that  it  wasn't  serious. 
I  believe  she  actually  said  that  he  was  wounded  in  the  head, 
but  Connie  may  have  added  that." 

"Did  you  try  her?"  asked  Barbara. 

"No."  Amy  hesitated  and  looked  uncomfortable.  "I'm 
always  afraid.  ...  I  believe,  if  we  were  meant  to  have  that 
kind  of  knowledge  it  would  come  to  us  in  some  other 
way.  .  .  .  And,  if  anything  terrible's  going  to  happen  to 
me,  I'd  sooner  not  hear  about  it  beforehand." 

Barbara  whispered  the  name  to  herself  and  determined, 
if  need  be,  to  find  out  more  about  the  woman.  Since  her 
tragic  seance  in  Webster's  flat,  she  had  decided  to  play  with 
fire  no  more;  but  she  could  never  forget  the  sight  of  Jack 
Summertown,  staring  a  little  glassily  but  speaking  with  his 
natural  voice  and  talking  so  freely  of  an  imminent  war  and 
of  his  own  approaching  death  that  none  dared  tell  him  what 
he  had  said.  It  might  be  coincidence  that  his  name  had 
appeared  in  the  first  casualty  list ;  but  more  than  coincidence 
was  needed  to  explain  why  he  should  have  talked  at  all  of 
a  future  war. 

"But  uncertainty's  the  most  terrible  thing  of  all,"  Bar- 
bara murmured. 

"It  has  to  be  borne,"  said  Lady  Loring  gently,  after  a 
pause.  "And  sometimes  for  a  long  time." 

Barbara  nodded.  It  was  useless  to  tell  them  that  she  had 
already  waited  a  year  to  find  out  whether  Jack  wanted  to 
marry  her. 

The  next  night  she  dined  with  George  Oakleigh,  who  told 
her  that  he  had  taken  tickets  for  Eric  Lane's  play. 

"Oh,  George,  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  go  to  a  theatre," 
she  said  doubtfully.  "I've  not  been  for  so  long " 

"Isn't  that  all  the  more  reason?  You're  the  best  unpaid 
dramatic  critic  in  London;  and  I  want  to  know  what  you 
think  of  it.  Eric's  a  great  friend  of  mine.  I  particularly 
want  you  to  meet  him.  .  .  .  Don't  come,  if  you'd  rather  not. 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     281 

But  I've  got  a  box,  and,  if  the  play  bores  you  more  than  my 
conversation,  we  can  talk  in  peace." 

They  compromised  by  arriving  late,  but  Barbara  was  not 
in  the  mood  to  enjoy  herself.  It  was  a  well-constructed 
play  with  dialogue  of  distinction  and  a  good  sense  of  the 
theatre ;  the  characterization,  she  complained,  was  insuffer- 
ably romantic. 

"I  congratulate  your  friend  on  a  great  commercial  suc- 
cess/' she  said,  "but  I  don't  want  to  meet  him.  Listen  to 
the  applause!  Every  single  character  is  so  unmistakably 
labelled  that  the  audience  greets  them  like  old  friends.  The 
theatre's  so  conventional  that,  if  you  tried  to  shew  men  and 
women  who  were  higher  and  lower  than  stage  standards, 
the  critics  would  say  that  your  characters  were  freaks.  On 
the  stage  a  woman  may  be  jealous  or  high-minded  or  a  mix- 
ture or  a  saint  or  a  thorough-going,  melodramatic  villainess, 
but  she's  always  a  child,  a  kitten.  Men  idealize  us  so  hope- 
lessly !  We're  dear  little  fluffy,  rather  silly  things,  with  silly 
little  mental  kinks  of  vanity  or  motherliness ;  no  man  under- 
stands how  mean  a  woman  can  be,  the  lies  she'll  tell  and  the 
crimes  she'll  commit  from  motives  which  she'd  be  afraid  to 
confess.  Your  friend  Mr.  Lane  has  never  met  a  woman." 

"Your  hard  on  your  sex,"  George  commented. 

Barbara  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I've  seen  it — without  its  rouge  and  powder.  Look  here, 
Sonia's  a  friend  of  yours  and  of  mine;  we  both  know  how 
she  behaved  to  Jim,  but  you'd  never  dare  put  her  into  a 
play,  because  the  audience  won't  accept  anything  that  offends 
against  its  standard  of  human  dignity,  it  won't  accept  re- 
alism which  makes  people  unconventionally  mean,  it  won't 
believe  that  any  one  who's  pretty  enough  to  attract  can  have 
a  really  deceitful,  petty  spirit.  Sonia  was  getting  rather 
a  bad  name  before  the  war,  but  she  marries  a  man  who's 
lost  his  sight,  and  every  one  says  that  the  other  part  was 
just  froth  and  that  this  is  the  true,  noble  Sonia — just  as 


282  LADY  LILITH 

nine  women  out  of  ten  become  true  and  noble  at  the  final 
curtain.  Sonia  married  that  man  for  effect !" 

"I  don't  think  you  can  have  seen  them  together,"  George 
suggested. 

"If  it  pays,  a  woman  can  always  make  herself  think  she's 
in  love  with  a  man — for  a  time.  I  daresay  she  thought  she 
was  in  love  with  Jim;  it  would  have  been  a  sensational 
marriage,  and  she'd  just  made  a  fool  of  herself  with  that 
other  man,  the  barrister.  This,  in  another  way,  is  a  sensa- 
tional marriage,  and  she  feels  she's  justified  herself.  It's  no 
good  shaking  your  head,  George;  you  don't  know  what 
romances  a  girl  makes  up  for  herself.  /  should  do  it.  As 
long  as  women  are  exposed  for  sale  in  a  shop-window, 
they'll  do  anything  to  keep  up  their  price.  They  think  it's 
self-respect ;  and  you  men  admire  them  for  their  pride." 

George  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  walked  to 
Berkeley  Square  without  speaking.  From  her  unwonted 
bitterness  he  guessed  that  she  was  trying  to  harden  herself 
in  advance  for  the  news  of  Jack's  death;  every  one  had  to 
choose  his  own  form  of  consolation. 

"When  will  you  dine  with  me  again  ?"  she  asked,  as  they 
reached  her  house. 

"I'm  going  to  the  Abbey  for  the  week-end.  Any  time 
after  that." 

"Then  what  about  Monday  ?  I'll  pick  you  up  at  the  same 
time." 

When  the  day  came  round,  Lady  Crawleigh  telephoned 
to  say  that  the  dinner  must  be  postponed,  as  Barbara  was 
ill  in  bed.  She  had  fainted  in  the  train  and  would  have  to 
take  a  complete  rest;  no  plans  had  yet  been  made,  no  de- 
tails or  explanation  were  vouchsafed.  Indeed,  Barbara 
would  only  say  that  she  had  found  herself  stretched  on  the 
seat  of  the  railway  carriage,  while  a  strange  man  forced 
brandy  between  her  lips. 

Any  fuller  report  would  have  increased  the  already  ex- 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     283 

cessive  alarm.  The  bare  facts  were  that  Barbara  had  en- 
tered the  train  at  Crawleigh  and  remembered  nothing  until 
she  recovered  consciousness  a  few  miles  from  Farnborough. 
A  young  man,  who  explained  that  he  had  got  in  at  Winches- 
ter, had  picked  her  up  from  the  floor  and  taken  charge  of 
her  until  her  maid  appeared  at  Waterloo. 

When  she  had  been  put  to  bed,  Barbara  began  to  recall 
and  reconstruct  forgotten  incidents.  She  had  felt  giddy 
and  had  tried  to  open  the  window.  ...  At  Waterloo  the 
young  man  had  insisted  on  carrying  her,  and  she  had  pro- 
tested that  she  was  too  heavy.  "I'll  take  great  care  of 
you."  .  .  .  "You  are  very  good  to  me."  .  .  .  Scraps  of  their 
conversation  floated  through  her  head,  and  she  remembered 
that  he  had  a  caressing  voice  which  soothed  her;  they  had 
talked,  but  she  was  three  parts  asleep.  Half-way  along  the 
platform,  he  put  her  to  rest  on  a  seat.  "I'm  supposed  to 
have  an  overstrained  heart,"  he  told  her,  "so  I  don't  like  to 
take  liberties  with  it."  Barbara  tried  to  see  his  face;  but 
he  was  bending  over  her,  and  the  light  was  behind  him.  And 
then  he  had  disappeared  before  she  could  thank  him.  "I  do 
hope  you'll  be  all  right.  I've  given  your  maid  my  flask  in 
case  you  want  any  more  brandy.  Good-bye."  Barbara  re- 
membered making  a  great  effort  to  rouse  herself  and  look  at 
him ;  but  he  had  dived  into  the  crowd  without  even  telling  her 
his  name.  The  flask  was  engraved  with  a  monogram  which 
seemed  to  be  E.  L. ;  that  and  his  voice  were  her  only  clues. 

In  her  oversensitive  condition,  the  voice  was  haunting. 
When  she  fell  asleep,  Barbara  heard  it  again;  and  in  the 
morning  she  gave  orders  that,  if  he  called  for  the  flask,  he 
was  to  be  asked  his  name  and  address.  Then  she  tried  to 
remember  whether  she  had  told  him  anything  which  would 
enable  him  to  identify  her;  there  was  a  label  on  her  dress- 
ing-case, but  he  might  not  have  seen  it ;  as  soon  as  her  maid 
and  car  appeared,  he  had  no  need  to  ask  where  she  lived. 
Barbara  felt  a  pang  of  disappointment  at  the  thought  that 


284  LADY 

she  might  not  meet  him  again.  Two  days  passed,  and  no 
one  enquired  for  the  flask;  she  decided  to  wait  until  she 
was  allowed  out  of  bed  and  then  to  advertise  in  the  Times. 
"E.  L.  Will  the  gentleman  who  rendered  assistance  to  a 
lady  who  was  taken  ill  on  the  340  p.  m.  between  Winches- 
ter and  Waterloo  communicate  ..." 

She  was  drafting  the  advertisement  when  her  mother 
came  into  the  room. 

"My  darling,  you  oughtn't  to  be  writing,"  protested  Lady 
Crawleigh.  "Let  me  do  it  for  you,  if  it's  important." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  Barbara  answered. 

She  tore  up  the  paper  and  lay  back  in  bed.  There  was 
nothing  to  conceal,  but  she  did  not  want  to  talk  about  her 
nameless  and  mysterious  rescuer.  Every  one  would  laugh  at 
her,  if  she  said  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  voice ;  and, 
if  she  chose  to  weave  a  romance  for  herself,  it  passed  the 
time  and  was  no  one  else's  business.  When  the  advertise- 
ment appeared,  "E.  L."  would  write  to  a  numbered  box  at 
the  Times  office ;  she  would  ask  him  to  call  so  that  she  could 
thank  him  in  person.  And  a  charming  friendship  might 
result.  No  one  could  have  carried  her  more  tenderly  or 
behaved  more  delightfully.  .  .  .  And,  as  long  as  she  amused 
herself  with  speculating  about  him,  she  could  avoid  think- 
ing of  other  things. 

"George  has  brought  you  some  flowers.  He  wants  to 
know  if  you  feel  up  to  seeing  him,"  said  Lady  Crawleigh. 

"Oh,  George !    Yes !" 

He  was  almost  the  only  one  of  her  friends  whom  she  was 
willing  to  meet  in  her  present  mood,  though  his  arrival 
interrupted  the  romance  which  she  was  constructing.  He 
was  also  the  only  one  of  her  friends  who  knew  or  had 
troubled  to  find  out  that  she  was  ill.  Apparently  he  was 
fond  of  her.  .  .  And  she  was  quite  ready  to  be  fond  of  him. 

"I  hope  you're  better,"  he  began.  "I  mustn't  stay  more 
than  a  moment,  but  I  saw  some  roses  in  a  shop  and  I 
thought  they  were  as  good  an  excuse  as  any  other." 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     285 

"You  felt  ycu  needed  an  excuse?" 

"I  wanted  very  much  to  see  you ;  and  I  hoped  these  might 
mollify  your  mother.  Babs,  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
know  that  I  met  Colonel  Waring  to-day  and  we're  having 
some  enquiries  made  through  the  American  Embassy.  Jack 
was  such  a  friend  of  us  all  .  .  ."  he  added  vaguely. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  that  they'll  be  able  to  hear  something." 

"Yes."  George  looked  round  the  room  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "I  promised  your  mother  I  wouldn't  do  more  than 
put  my  nose  in  at  the  door." 

"But  I  want  you  to  stay!" 

"And,  dearest  Babs,  you  know  that's  what  I  want  to  do 
more  than  anything  in  the  world.  But  I  mustn't  tire  you, 
and  you  mustn't  tempt  me."  He  lifted  her  hands  from  the 
sheets  and  bent  quickly  to  kiss  them.  "You  poor  child !" 

Barbara  felt  that  this  time  she  must  explain,  if  she  was 
not  to  be  maddened  with  sympathy. 

"You  mustn't  pity  me,  George,"  she  began. 

"I  pity  any  one  who's  in  suspense.  .  .  .  The  colonel's  ab- 
solutely convinced  that  Jack's  all  right.  Good-bye,  Babs." 

As  he  turned  abruptly  and  hurried  out  of  the  room,  Bar- 
bara covered  her  eyes.  George  was  not  only  fond  of  her, 
he  was  in  love  with  her;  and  he  had  come  on  purpose  to 
encourage  her,  against  his  own  interests,  with  hopes  of 
Jack's  safety.  There  was  a  dramatic  irony  in  his  coming; 
there  would  be  a  further  dramatic  irony,  if  she  fell  in  love 
with  him  for  his  sympathy  about  Jack  and  then"  heard  that 
Jack  was  safe  and  sound.  Or,  indeed,  if  she  fell  in  love 
with  any  one  else.  Because  she  was  overwrought  and  full 
of  fancies,  the  shadow  of  the  man  in  the  train  was  more 
real  than  George's  substance;  the  one  voice  she  could  re- 
member and  reproduce,  but  George's  might  have  belonged 
to  anybody.  .  .  .  This  was  her  old  fear  of  the  punishment 
which  Providence  had  in  store  for  her,  the  image  of  herself 
passionately  reaching  out  towards  some  one  and  finding  her 
way  barred  by  Jack's  inexorable  ghost. 


286  LADY  LILITH 

Suspence.  "I  pity  any  one  who's  in  suspense."  ...  It  was 
the  uncertainty  of  the  last  year  which  had  worn  down  her 
strength.  And  Lady  Loring  told  her  to  be  patient.  .  .  . 
Barbara's  mind  went  back  to  her  dinner  of  a  week  before 
and  to  Amy's  chance  reference  to  a  new  clairvoyant.  Mrs. 
Savage  of  Knightsbridge.  ...  No  other  address  had  been 
given,  but  she  could  find  that  from  Sonia.  All  her  life  Bar- 
bara had  treated  impulse  as  a  thing  to  be  welcomed,  a  hint 
from  destiny,  a  voice  from  the  darkness.  When  she  awoke 
next  morning,  it  was  to  wonder  why  she  had  waited  so  long. 
On  the  first  day  that  she  was  allowed  out  of  the  house  she 
went  by  herself  to  Knightsbridge  and  asked,  without  giving 
her  name,  for  an  interview. 

At  another  time  the  setting  and  her  own  preparations 
would  have  amused  her.  By  putting  on  her  most  inconspic- 
uous dress  and  hat,  by  veiling  herself  and  by  sinking  her 
voice  to  a  whisper,  she  trusted  to  escape  recognition ;  un- 
consciously she  also  induced  in  her  own  mind  a  mysterious 
expectancy,  which  was  intensified  by  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room  into  which  she  was  shewn.  There  were  no  windows, 
and  it  was  lighted  from  the  ceiling ;  three  low  couches  ran 
round  the  walls,  which  were  covered  with  yellow  silk  hang- 
ings; occasionally  the  hangings  moved  weirdly,  as  though 
some  one  were  peeping  behind  them.  Though  there  were 
three  women  already  waiting,  they  were  as  silent  as  ifv  they 
were  watching  by  the  dead;  and  it  had  been  ingeniously 
arranged  that,  while  they  waited,  there  should  be  nothing 
to  distract  their  attention  from  the  coming  invocation  of  the 
unknown.  They,  too,  were  dressed  inconspicuously;  they, 
too,  wore  thick  veils;  and  the  suggestion  of  stealth  and 
mystery,  which  they  had  received  from  the  room  and  from 
those  whom  they  had  found  there,  they  handed  on  to  the 
newcomer. 

Barbara's  nerves  were  still  unstrung,  and  she  had  less 
control  of  herself  than  in  the  old  days  when  she  went  to  the 
Baroness  Kohnstadt's  seances;  then  she  had  gone  to  be 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     287 

thrilled,  but  now  she  was  tempted  to  tell  the  maid  that  she 
could  not  wait  and  would  come  back  some  other  time.  But, 
if  she  ran  away,  the  other  women  would  guess  the  reason, 
and  she  could  never  allow  another  woman  to  know  that  she 
was  frightened.  .  .  . 

They  were  staring  at  her  from  behind  their  veils,  and  she 
stared  coolly  back  at  them  until  the  maid  returned  and  whis- 
pered to  one  that  Mrs.  Savage  could  now  see  her.  The 
hangings  moved  again ;  it  might  have  been  the  draught  from 
the  open  door,  or  Mrs.  Savage  might  be  having  a  prelimin- 
ary look  at  her  clients;  certainly  it  was  disquieting,  for 
no  one  liked  to  be  watched  without  seeing  the  watcher.  .  .  . 
When  next  the  maid  came  in,  Barbara  looked  at  the  clock 
and  noted  that  interviews  lasted  for  half  an  hour.  She 
wondered  what  method  the  clairvoyant  followed — and  be- 
came suddenly  sceptical  and  disgusted  with  the  whole  en- 
terprise. She  had  done  it  so  often  before !  Her  hand  had 
been  read,  her  character  told  from  her  writing ;  one  woman 
had  taken  her  handkerchief  and  pressed  it  to  her  forehead, 
another  had  stared  raptly  into  the  time-honoured  crystal 
ball ;  she  had  tried  planchette  and  rappings ;  and  from  it  all 
she  had  won  nothing  but  an  afternoon's  excitement.  .  .  . 

It  was  five  o'clock ;  the  last  of  the  women  had  gone,  and 
Barbara  was  alone.  She  pretended  to  examine  the  embroid- 
ery of  the  silk  hangings  and  contrived  to  look  behind  them, 
but  there  was  nothing  more  alarming  than  an  expanse  of 
discoloured  plaster.  Nerves,  again.  .  .  .  But  the  silence  and 
the  waiting  were  hard  to  bear;  the  room  was  hot,  Barbara 
wanted  tea,  and  one  of  the  women  had  been  using  a  cheap, 
disagreeable  scent  which  lingered  intolerably.  Nothing  but 
a  refusal  to  yield  to  her  fear  kept  her  from  running  away. 
She  was  trying  to  determine  what  questions  she  would  ask 
the  clairvoyant,  when  the  maid  returned. 

"Mrs.  Savage  says  she  can  see  your  ladyship  now." 

Barbara  started  and  nearly  cried  out;  but  the  maid  was 
watching  her,  and  she  passed  through  the  door  with  elab- 


288  LADY  LILITH 

orate  outward  unconcern.  The  second  room  was  similar  to 
the  first,  for,  though  there  was  a  window,  it  was  thickly  cur- 
tained, and  the,  only  light  came  from  a  standard  lamp  in 
one  corner.  For  a  moment  Barbara  could  see  no  one ;  then 
Mrs.  Savage  came  forward  in  a  yellow  dress  which  was 
invisible  against  the  silk  hangings.  She  wore  a  low  yellow 
turban,  covering  her  hair  and  half  her  forehead,  and  stood 
with  her  back  to  the  light. 

"Good  afternoon,  Lady  Barbara,"  she  said.  "Won't  you 
take  off  your  veil?" 

The  voice  was  unfamiliar,  but  after  a  moment  Mrs.  Sav- 
age lighted  a  cigarette  and  shewed  cavernous  dark  eyes  and 
an  aquiline  nose  set  in  a  curiously  narrow  face  which  looked 
as  if  the  cheek-bones  had  been  crushed  together. 

"Madame  Hilary!" 

"Won't  you  have  a  cigarette?" 

She  held  out  a  case,  and  Barbara  took  one  to  gain  time. 
So  much  had  happened  since  the  meeting  in  Webster's  room 
that  it  no  longer  troubled  her.  The  woman  was  certainly 
a  blackmailer,  as  she  had  almost  proved  when  she  went  to 
Lord  Crawleigh  and  asked  for  "temporary  assistance." 
There  would,  of  course,  be  a  terrible  scene,  if  it  were  ever 
discovered  that  Barbara  had  been  to  her  again,  and  Mrs. 
Savage  would  quite  possibly  threaten  blackmail,  if  she  saw 
her  course  clear.  On  the  other  hand,  now  as  before,  the 
relative  positions  were  equally  strong  and  equally  weak;  if 
she  even  hinted  at  a  threat,  she  could  be  reported  to  the 
police.  .  .  .  After  the  two  hours  of  dreary  waiting,  Barbara 
felt  stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  an  encounter. 

"I  never  imagined  it  was  you,"  she  said. 

"What  may  I  have  the  honour  of  doing  for  you?"  asked 
Mrs.  Savage. 

Barbara  thought  for  a  moment  of  saying  vaguely  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake  and  of  escaping  as  soon  as  possible. 
But  after  the  strain  of  waiting  she  now  felt  deliciously  free 
from  fear.  And  "Mrs.  Savage"  or  "Madame  Hilary"  was 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     289 

not  as  other  clairvoyants ;  the  incident  of  Jack  Summertown 
proved  that ;  and  the  opportunity  of  consulting  her  was  too 
good  to  be  thrown  away.  Barbara  felt  that  she  was  not 
entitled  to  throw  it  away;  had  she  not  almost  been  guided 
there  ?  Was  it  coincidence  that  Amy  Loring,  of  all  unlikely 
people,  should  have  given  her  the  name  at  all?  Was  it 
coincidence  that,  when  there  were  scores  of  women  plying 
the  same  trade,  she  should  come  straight  and  without  choice 
or  deliberation  to  this  one?  .  .  . 

"I'd  heard  about  you,"  Barbara  explained.  "I  didn't 
know  who  it  was,  of  course,  but  I  wanted  to  consult  you." 

She  hesitated  and  tried  to  determine  what  she  wanted. 

"Yes?" 

"I  didn't  know  who  it  was,"  Barbara  repeated.  "But  I'm 
glad  to  find  it  is  you.  Do  you  remember  the  man  in  Mr. 
Webster's  flat?" 

"Lord  Summertown?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  remember  what  you  told  him?" 

"I  told  him  nothing.    It  was  what  he  said." 

"Well,  yes.  He  said  that  he  was  going  to  die  quite  soon, 
that  he  was  going  to  be  killed  in  a  war.  Well,  that  was 
months  before  there  was  any  talk  of  war.  Do  you  know 
what's  happened  to  him?" 

Mrs.  Savage  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little  impatiently, 
as  though  such  questions  were  a  waste  of  time. 

"He  was  killed  in  the  war,"  she  said. 

She  spoke  as  if  she  took  credit  for  it,  and  Barbara  shiv- 
ered. 

"Yes.  ...  I  saw  him  just  before  he  went  back  to  bar- 
racks. I  never  saw  him  again,  but  I  felt  then  that  he  was 
going  to  be  killed.  How  did  you  know?" 

"He  told  me,  as  you  heard." 

"Yes,  but  .  .  ." 

Barbara  frowned  and  sat  down,  rubbing  her  forehead 
gently  with  her  hand. 

"/  tell  nothing,  but  I  persuade  people  to  tell  me,"  ex- 


LADY  LILITH 

plained  Mrs.  Savage  with  unconcealed  boredom.  As  she 
dropped  back  into  the  part  of  "Madame  Hilary,"  "Mrs.  Sav- 
age" was  reviving  her  old  staccato  English  and  giving  it  a 
hint  of  a  foreign  accent  "People  come  to  me  to  find  out 
whether  their  sons  and  husbands  are  going  to  be  killed.  / 
do  not  know.  And  I  tell  them  so.  Then  sometimes  they 
allow  me  to  persuade  them  to  tell  me.  And,  in  my  turn, 
I  can  tell  them  what  they  have  said.  But,  generally,  no! 
They  are  afraid  of  hearing  the  truth.  When  their  sons  and 
husbands  have  been  killed,  when  nothing  has  been  heard  of 
them  since  long,  then  they  come,  because  they  feel  that  the 
truth  is  less  hard  than  the  waiting.  You  have  a  brother?" 

"They're  still  waiting  to  go  out,"  answered  Barbara. 

"And  you  want  to  know?  I  can  only  tell  you,  if  you  tell 
me  first ;  and  you  can  only  tell  me,  if  you  know.  The  lines 
of  life  are  interlocked.  If  their  lines  cross  yours,  then  you 
know ;  but,  if  they  are  separated  .  .  .  You  understand  ?  It 
is  not  likely  that  you  know  anything  of  a  man  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world,  whom  you  have  never  met,  unless  it  has 
been  ordained  that  you  are  to  meet  him.  That  is  reason- 
able." 

She  lighted  another  cigarette  and  sat  down,  looking  at 
Barbara  with  no  apparent  interest. 

"You  want  to  find  out  about  some  one  whose  life  has 
crossed  yours?"  she  resumed  carelessly,  and  her  indiffer- 
ence was  more  disconcerting  than  either  her  stereotyped 
mysticism  or  the  hostility  which*  she  had  shewn  when  Bar- 
bara came  into  the  room. 

"I  want  to  find  out  generally,"  answered  Barbara.  "All 
about  myself.  What  I've  done  and  what  I'm  doing  now 
doesn't  matter,  but  I  want  to  know  about  the  future." 

Mrs.  Savage  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  your  name,"  she  said.  "I  know  who  you  are, 
but  I  know  very  little  about  you.  I  imagine  that  your  life 
has  been  very  happy,  you  have  had  everything  to  make  it 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE     291 

happy.  Perhaps  it  will  not  always  be  happy.  If  you 
learned  that  you  were  going  to  be  very  ill  or  die " 

"I've  got  to  die  some  time.  When  I'm  seventy-five,  I 
shall  know  that  I'm  going  to  die  very  soon,  because  hardly 
any  one  lives  longer  than  that.  I'm  twenty-two  now,  and  I 
don't  in  the  least  mind  knowing  that  I  can't  live  for  more 
than  about  another  fifty  years." 

"But,  if  it  were  five  years?    I  do  not  know,  of  course." 

"I'd  sooner  face  it,  I  think." 

Mrs.  Savage  threw  away  her  cigarette  impatiently. 

"You're  a  child !  And  a  silly  child !  Your  friend,  Lord 
Summertown — well,  I  suppose  none  of  you  told  him  what 
he  had  said.  And  I  suppose  he  enjoyed  his  life  to  the  end. 
The  whole  future!  Would  you  like  to  know  that  you  will 
marry  in  a  year  and  be  happy  and  lose  your  husband  after 
three  months  and  lose  your  child  and  marry  again — perhaps, 
this  time,  some  one  who  will  not  make  you  happy?  And  that 
then  you  will  have  an  illness  or  this  or  that?  ...  I  am 
talking  for  your  good,  because  you  are  nothing  but  a  silly 
child.  I  tell  you  that  people  will  not  be  persuaded  to  say  to 
me  all  they  know ;  they  dare  not  face  it.  Their  present  and 
future  happiness " 

"I'm  not  so  very  happy,"  sighed  Barbara. 

"You  are  a  child.  And  your  friends  are  being  killed,  per- 
haps some  one  whom  you  love " 

"I  want  to  know,"  Barbara  interrupted.  "Everything's 
in  such  a  muddle,  I  want  to  know  what's  going  to  hap- 
pen. ..."  She  paused,  but  Mrs.  Savage  only  shook  her 
head.  "Should  I  know  what  I  was  telling  you  ?  No !  Lord 
Summertown  didn't.  Well,  you  need  only  tell  me  back  the 
things  that  matter.  If  you  ask  me  questions  and  I  an- 
swer them.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  don't  want  to  know  if  I'm  going 
to  die  within  a  year,  but  there  are  all  sorts  of  things  that 
I  could  quite  well  be  told.  .  .  .  Will  you  do  that?  Just  the 
things  that  matter?" 


292  LADY  LILITH 

"But  I  do  not  know  what  matters  to  you.  Do  you  mean, 
whether  your — friends  will  come  through  the  war  without 
injury?" 

.     "Ye-es.    That  sort  of  thing.    I  want  to  know  if  I'm  going 
to  be  happy.    Generally." 

"Andvyou  believe  that  I  can  help  you?"  Mrs.  Savage's 
voice  was  changing  its  quality  to  a  sleepy  drone,  and  Bar- 
bara found  herself  looking  into  her  eyes.  "Only  you  can 
tell  me  what  you  think  will  make  you  happy.  I  know  noth- 
ing about  you  except  what  you  tell  me.  Perhaps  you  are  in 
love  with  some  man,  perhaps  you  think  that  he  is  in  dan- 
ger. ...  If  you  will  tell  me  .  .  ." 

Barbara  never  knew  at  what  point  she  began  to  come 
under  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Savage's  eyes  and  voice.  At  one 
moment  she  was  begging  her  to  use  her  powers,  at  another 
she  was  talking  very  volubly;  it  was  like  a  dream  in  which 
she  fancied  herself  making  a  speech ;  words  were  pouring 
out  of  her,  and  she  was  astonished  to  find  that  they  made 
the  nonsense  of  words  in  a  dream.  "The  distinction  be- 
tween the  articles  in  counterpoint,  if  you  think  of  heliotrope 
quite  accidentally  included.  .  .  ." 

"What  have  I  been  saying  ?"  she  demanded. 

Mrs.  Savage  leaned  back  wearily  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"It  is  like  that,  when  you  return  to  yourself,  to  the  pres- 
ent. .  .  .  Lord  Summertown  was  disturbed  by  that  poor 
girl  who  cried  out." 

"But  I  didn't  know  .  .  .  Did  I  go  off  ?  How  long  .  .  .  ?" 
She  looked  at  her  watch  and  found  that  she  had  been  in  the 
room  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  "What  did  I  say?" 

"You  were  a  good  subject." 

"But  what  did  I  say?"  Barbara  repeated.    It  was'the  sight 
of  her  watch  that  upset  her.     In  forty-five  minutes  it  was 
possible  to  say  so  much,  and  she  remembered  Jack  Sum- 
mertown's  almost  indecent  want  of  restraint. 
,     "What  shall  I  tell  you,"  mused  Mrs.  Savage.     "You  said 


THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  ORACLE      293 

much,  but  you  described  an  empty  life.  Few  lines  crossed 
yours;  there  may  be  more  to  come.  .  .  .  But  you  did  not 
tell  me  of  any  loss.  Were  you  afraid  of  losing  some  one?" 

"No.  ...  I  wanted  to  know,  I  wanted  to — to  straighten 
things  out.  But  I  want  to  know  everything  I  said.  You 
must  tell  me  that." 

"You  child!" 

Barbara  sprang  up  in  a  grip  of  terror. 

"I've  said  something  awful?  You're  hiding  something 
from  me !  It's  not  fair !" 

Mrs.  Savage  shook  her  head  slowly.  She  seemed  per- 
plexed, and  her  early  hostility  had  evaporated  until  she  was 
almost  kindly. 

"You  wanted  to  know  whether  you  would  be  happy,"  she 
reminded  Barbara.  "You  tell  me  that  you  are  not  going  to 
die  this  year  or  next;  and  you  are  not  going  to  have  any 
painful  or  dangerous  illnesses.  Happy?  .  .  .  There  are  ups 
and  downs  of  happiness,  you  cannot  expect  to  be  happy 
always  at  the  same  level.  If  you  have  been  happy  so  far, 
you  will  be  happy  again;  there  will,  of  course,  be  ups  and 
downs.  What  else?" 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything  I  said." 

"That  I  shall  not  do." 

"But  why  not?" 

Mrs.  Savage  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It  would  not  make  you  any  happier.  If  there  is  any  one 
thing  you  want  to  know  .  .  ." 

Barbara  looked  at  her  and  looked  away.  She  felt  her 
nerve  going. 

"What  is  your  fee?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Savage  was  still  perplexed  in  expression,  but  her 
eyes  had  lost  their  momentary  softening  of  kindliness. 

"I  shall  charge  you — no  fee,"  she  answered. 

Barbara  turned  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

PRELUDE  TO   ROMANCE 

"I  loved  you  all  my  life ;  but  some  lives  never  meet 
Though  they  go  wandering  side  by  side  through  Time." 

JOHN  MASEFIELD:     "THE  DAFFODIL  FIELDS." 

"Fatalism  is  a  doctrine  which  does  not  recognise  th* 
determination  of  all  events  by  causes  in  the  ordinary  sense; 
holding,  on  the  contrary,  that  a  certain  foreordained  result 
will  come  about,  no  matter  what  may  be  done  to  prevent 
it.  .  .  /* 

Barbara's  first  action  on  reaching  home  was  to  go  into 
the  library  and  consult  a  dictionary  to  find  out  the  exact 
meaning  of  a  word  which  she  had  been  repeating  to  herself 
ever  since  she  hurried  out  of  Mrs.  Savage's  rooms.  She 
had  many  new  ideas  to  fit  into  place,  but  dominating  them 
all  was  this  sense  of  hopelessness  and  inevitability.  Whether 
you  walked  on  the  north  pavement  or  the  south  was  pre- 
ordained ;  if  you  asserted  your  supposed  free  will  .  and 
crossed  from  south  to  north,  even  that  pitiful  show  of  inde- 
pendence was  preordained ;  God  was  still  pushing  you  from 
behind  and,  probably,  laughing  at  you — as  you  laughed  at 
the  kitten  which  stared  at  you  with  head  on  one  side  and 
wondering  eyes,  to  know  what  you  had  done  with  its  reel 
of  cotton.  It  was  preordained  that  you  should  play  with 
that  kitten  for  a  moment  in  eternity  and  that  for  a  fraction 
of  a  moment  you  should  hide  the  reel.  Fatalism  was  para- 
lyzing to  the  soul,  destroying  all  effort.  Nothing  mattered 
any  longer  .  .  . 

It  was  Summertown  who  had  made  her  a  fatalist.  His 

294 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  295 

life  had  been  mapped  out  until  all  initiative  was  taken  away. 
He  had  died  very  gallantly — but  he  could  not  help  himself ; 
he  had  lived  rather  dissolutely,  but  he  could  not  help  him- 
self. There  had  been  a  tragedy  and  a  disappointment  in  his 
life;  but  the  tragedy  was  set  beforehand,  and  Destiny  de- 
cided whether  he  was  to  be  made  or  broken  by  it,  whether 
he  was  to  avert  or  contribute  to  it.  Fatalism  was  the  nega- 
tion of  morality.  It  allowed  of  neither  right  nor  wrong, 
only  necessity. 

If  there  were  neither  right  nor  wrong,  Barbara  had  no 
cause  for  self-reproach.  Destiny  had  arranged  that  Jack 
should  come  into  her  life ;  that  he  should  anger  her  and  that 
she  should  try  to  punish  him;  in  obeying  Destiny  she  was 
not  to  blame.  But,  if  fatalism  relieved  her  of  responsibility, 
it  also  robbed  her  of  resistance;  she  could  do  nothing  to 
shield  herself  from  anything  that  Destiny  might  have  in 
store  for  her.  Nothing  had  shielded  Summertown  when  he 
came  within  range  of  the  first  German  bullet.  .  .  . 

And  the  course  of  Destiny  could  be  laid  bare.  Though 
for  long  she  had  not  believed  it,  she  and  the  others  had 
known  what  would  happen  to  Summertown,  as  Mrs.  Sav- 
age now  knew  what  would  happen  to  her.  .  .  .  And  she 
had  been  afraid  to  insist  on  being  told.  All  her  life  she  had 
fancied  that  she  was  a  free  spirit  with  head  and  hands  to 
make  herself  what  she  pleased.  Now  she  was  content  to  be 
told  that,  on  the  whole,  she  was  preordained  to  be 
happy.  .  .  .  Or  so  Mrs.  Savage  had  thought  fit  to  say ;  she 
might  be  hiding  something;  there  was  no  obvious  reason 
why  she  refused  her  fee. 

"My  darling,  haven't  you  gone  up  to  dress  yet?"  said 
Lady  Crawleigh  at  the  door  of  the  library.  "You'll  be  so 
dreadfully  late!" 

Barbara  knew  that  whether  she  was  late  or  punctual  had 
been  preordained.  Her  mother  probably  would  not  believe 


296  LADY  LILITH 

that ;  she  would  feel  that  every  one  had  enough  free  will  not 
to  keep  other  people  waiting  for  dinner. 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  dine  in  bed,"  she  answered 
wearily. 

"Aren't  you  feeling  well  ?" 

"I'm  not  equal  to  meeting  a  lot  of  people." 

"But  it's  only  George  and  the  O'Ranes  and  one  or  two 
more.  They'll  be  so  disappointed.  And  it's  the  first  time 
Sonia's  dined  here  since  she  was  married." 

Barbara  got  up  and  walked  reluctantly  to  the  door.  It 
was  preordained,  then,  that  she  should  dine.  .  .  .  Once  you 
accepted  predestination,  there  was  no  limit  to  its  application. 
Her  maid  wanted  her  to 'wear  a  grey  dress,  but  she  pre- 
ferred something  else,  anything  else;  her  choice  fell  on  a 
blue,  but  she  was  conscious  that  she  was  compelled  from 
outside  to  choose  one  rather  than  the  other.  She  could  not 
be  troubled  to  decide  what  jewellery  she  would  wear ;  Des- 
tiny must  do  a  little  work,  must  choose  for  her.  She  felt 
that  she  was  scoring  a  point  against  Destiny,  when  she  re- 
fused to  wear  any;  but  Destiny  had  decided  beforehand  that 
she  was  to  have  this  moment's  struggle  before  deciding  not 
to  wear  any.  .  .  . 

Her  maid  was  almost  in  tears  at  such  indifference. 

"You  don't  do  me  credit,  my  lady,  to-night,"  she  com- 
plained. 

"Don't  I  ?  I'm  sorry,  Merton  !  But  I'm  tired,  I  can't  take 
the  trouble." 

"Your  hair,  my  lady " 

"I  think  I  shall  cut  it  off !  It's  only  a  bother." 

"My  lady,  your  beautiful  hair?" 

"No,  I  shan't  cut  it  off.  It's  too  much  trouble.  Every- 
thing's too  much  trouble." 

She  hardly  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  before  going 
downstairs,  though  she  knew  that  Sonia  O'Rane  would  have 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  297 

spent  hours  in  preparing  herself.  But  it  was  preordained 
whether  she  looked  well  ...  or  wanted  to  look  well. 

Throughout  dinner  her  mind  struggled  under  the  incubus. 
Predestination  peeped  round  every  conversational  corner, 
explaining  and  stultifying  everything.  When  O'Rane  spoke 
sympathetically  of  Jim  Loring's  death,  she  answered  almost 
callously  that  it  must  have  been  preordained.  Since  leaving 
Airs.  Savage,  she  had  tried  vainly  to  discover  some  point  in 
which  she  was  superior  to  an  animal  that  was  born  at  the, 
stockman's  bidding,  to  be  killed  for  lamb  or  shorn  for  wool 
or  kept  to  bear  other  sheep  at  the  stockman's  bidding  and 
ultimately  killed  for  mutton. 

"You  see,  I  believe  in  Destiny,"  Barbara  explained.  "Des- 
tiny meant  you  to  be  wounded  and  Jim  to  be  killed  and 
some  one  else  to  be  untouched.  If  Destiny  didn't  mean  me 
to  be  burned,  I  could  put  my  finger  in  the  flame  of  that  can- 
dle. Everything  we  do " 

O'Rane  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"You  don't  believe  that,  Lady  Barbara.  You  don't  be- 
lieve that  you've  no  choice- whether  you're  good  or  bad,  kind 
or  unkind — that  you're  helpless." 

"I  am  waiting  for  you  to  find  fault  with  my  logic,"  she 
answered. 

"I  won't  try.  I  wish  I  could  see  you,  though  !  You  sound 
serious,  but  in  the  old  days,  when  I  looked  at  you,  there 
was  a  sort  of  etherealized  smile " 

"Ah,  don't !"  Barbara  shivered. 

" It  gave  you  away  .   .   .  I'm  sorry !    I'm  getting  so 

used  to  being  blind  that  I  forget  other  people's  feelings. 
i.  .  .  Your  voice  is  quite  serious,  and  I'm  getting  wonderful 
at  voices.  Shall  I  tell  you  something  about  yours  ?  A  change 
I've  noticed  ?"  He  waited  to  assure  himself  that  they  were 
not  overheard.  "Lady  Barbara,  are  you  very  unhappy  about 
something?  It's  not  curiosity;  I  want  to  help,  if  I  can. 
When  you're  blind,  you  become  a  bit  of  an  impressionist. 


298  LADY  LILITH 

If  any  one  asked  me  to  describe  you,  I'm  glad  to  say  that  I 
can  still  remember  exactly  what  you  used  to  look  like,  but, 
when  I  describe  you  to  myself,  I  get  a  massing  of  colours,  a 
glorious  freedom  of  line  that  no  one  else  might  recognize 
for  you.  Your  voice  would  make  me  crowd  my  canvas 
with  red,  blood  red.  Pain  is  always  red  to  me.  And  you 
give  me  the  impression  of  horrible  pain.  More  than  that, 
I'm  afraid  you've  giving  in  to  it.  I  don't  ask  for  your  con- 
fidence, but,  if  I'm  right,  I  should  like  to  help." 

Barbara  was  too  much  startled  to  do  more  than  thank 
him  and  say  that  she  was  not  very  well. 

"Ah,  that  was  a  pity !"  he  sighed. 

"But  I  can't  help  it,  can  I  ?" 

"It  was  a  pity  to  say  that.  You've  covered  my  picture 
with  a  thin  grey-yellow  wash — Thames  water — which  dulls 
my  colours." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'm  not  speaking  the  truth  ?"  she  asked 
stiffly. 

"I  had  no  right  to  say  what  I  did,"  he  answered  apolo- 
getically. "But  you  sounded  so  heart-broken." 

"Well,  in  addition  to  being  not  very  well,  I'm  not  par- 
ticularly happy.  Life's  such  a  hopeless  thing,  if  you  can't 
control  it." 

"And  you  say  that,  Lady  Barbara,  with  your  brains  and 
your  looks  and  your  health  and  your  money ' 

"Even  if  I've  got  them  all,  they  needn't  make  me 
happy.  .  .  .  They  don't!  Sometimes  I  feel  that,  if  I  could 
give  them  all  up,  if  I  could  make  one  gigantic  sacrifice,  I 
might  be  happy.  .  .  .  You're  not  sorry  to  have  been  fight- 
ing, are  you?  But  I  wonder  what  equal  sacrifice  a  woman 
can  make." 

"Ah,  to  die  with  credit  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world," 
O'Rane  answered,  as  he  pushed  back  his  chair. 

When  she  was  half-way  upstairs,  Barbara  excused  her- 
self and  went  to  her  room.  Sonia  and  her  husband  were  so 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  299 

happy  that  their  happiness  hurt  her;  she  grudged  it  them. 
There  was  no  reason  under  heaven  why  she  should  not  be 
as  happy,  but  Destiny  had  not  yet  ordained  it.  Perhaps 
Destiny  had  decided  that  she  should  see  it  for  a  moment 
and  then  have  it  snatched  from  her.  It  was  a  variant  of  her 
old  fear  that  she  would  have  to  marry  Jack  and  then  fall  in 
love  with  some  one  else ;  then  she  had  regarded  such  a  fate 
as  her  punishment.  Destiny,  she  now  felt,  did  not  concern 
itself  with  rewards  and  punishments ;  it  was  altogether  too 
arbitrary. 

She  lay  on  her  bed  without  undressing  and  thought  over 
the  day's  emotions.  Of  all  that  she  had  done  she  only  re- 
gretted her  momentary  panic  when  she  ran  away  from  Mrs. 
Savage ;  and,  the  more  she  regretted  it,  the  more  determined 
she  became  to  go  again  and  to  demand  f^ull  answers  to  all 
her  questions.  As  soon  as  her  mind  was  made  up,  she  felt 
better.  People  might  call  her  superstitious,  gullible  or  any- 
thing else  they  pleased,  but  they  should  not  say  that  she  was 
a  coward.  Jumping  up  from  the  bed,  she  tidied  her  hair  and 
went  down  to  the  drawing-room  in  time  to  find  Sonia  saying 
good-bye. 

"Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  said  Barbara.  "I  had  such  a  head- 
ache that  I  had  to  lie  down,  but  it's  better  now.  I  haven't 
had  a  moment  with  you  the  whole  evening." 

"We've  promised  to  go  to  a  party,"  Sonia  answered.  "To- 
night's the  hundred  and  fiftieth  performance  of  Eric  Lane's 
play,  and  he's  giving  a  supper  on  the  stage.  Why  don't  you 
come  too  ?" 

"I  haven't  been  asked.    And  I  don't  know  him." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter!  I  don't  know  him,  but  David 
was  up  at  Oxford  with  him." 

"I  think  I'll  wait  until  I've  met  him.  You're  not  going 
too,  George?" 

"I'm  bound  for  the  same  debauch,  I'm  afraid.     Barbara, 


300  LADY  LILITH 

will  you  dine  with  me  some  time  to  meet  him?  I'll  try  to 
fix  a  night  and  telephone  to  you  in  the  morning." 

"I  shall  love  that." 

She  went  to  bed,  feeling  that  she  would  sleep;  but  her 
nerves  were  unsettled  by  the  memory  of  her  encounter  with 
Mrs.  Savage.  After  trying  to  read,  she  jumped  up  and 
began  walking  about  the  room.  She  was  never  conscious 
of  having  gone  outside,  but  some  time  later  she  found  her- 
self in  the  hall,  lying  on  a  table  with  a  rug  round  her.  Lady 
Grawleigh  was  standing  over  her  with  a  white  face  and 
frightened  eyes ;  her  maid  hovered  in  the  background,  with 
her  hair  in  curl-papers  and  a  grotesque  mackintosh  over  her 
nightgown.  Farther  away  stood  an  unmistakable  policeman 
with  close-cropped  black  hair  and  a  line  of  white  at  the  top 
of  his  forehead.  Barbara  reflected  that  she  had  never  be- 
fore seen  a  policeman  without  his  helmet.  Then  she  sat 
up  and  stared  round  her. 

"What's  happened?" 

"My  darling  child,  lie  still,"  Lady  Crawleigh  implored. 
"How  do  you  feel?" 

"I'm  all  right." 

"You  were  walking  in  your  sleep.  Oh,  Babs,  you've  given 
us  all  such  a  fright!  D'you  know,  you'd  actually  got  out- 
side. .  .  .  Anything  might  have  happened  to  you !" 

Barbara  looked  from  her  mother  to  the  policeman. 

"Outside?"  she  repeated. 

"You'd  unlocked  the  door  and  pushed  back  both  bolts — 
Aston's  quite  sure  he  bolted  top  and  bottom " 

"And  I  went  out  like  this?"  Barbara  interrupted.  She 
pulled  up  the  end  of  the  rug  and  found  that  she  was  bare- 
footed and  in  her  nightdress.  "I  can't  remember.  ...  I 
went  to  bed ;  I  do  remember  that  it  was  very  hot  and  that  I 
walked  about  the  room.  ..." 

The  policeman  coughed  and  prepared  to  retire.  Lady 
Crawleigh  despatched  the  maid  for  her  purse,  but  Barbara 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  301 

was  too  much  dazed  even  to  thank  him.  A  dream  which 
had  been  wonderfully  vivid  a  moment  before  was  fading 
from  her  recollection,  driven  out  scene  by  scene  at  the  sound 
of  her  mother's  frightened  voice.  She  had  fancied  that  she 
was  again  sitting  with  Mrs.  Savage  and  that  the  flicker  of 
kindliness  which  had  for  a  moment  lighted  up  the  gaunt  face 
and  smouldering  dark  eyes  was  once  more  visible.  In  an- 
other moment  everything  would  have  been  told.  .  .  . 

"I  suppose  I  was  going  for  a  walk.    What's  the  time  ?" 

"It's  one  o'clock,"  answered  Lady  Crawleigh.  "I  sat  up 
to  finish  some  writing.  .  .  .  My  darling  child,  are  you  sure 
you're  all  right  now?" 

Barbara  stood  for  a  moment  to  test  her  strength  and  then 
walked  to  the  stairs. 

"Yes,  thanks.  I'll  go  back  to  bed  now.  I'm  sorry  to  have 
frightened  everybody." 

"I'll  come  with  you,  Babs.  If  you  want  anything  in  the 
night " 

"I'm  really  all  right!"  Barbara  was  so  much  exhausted 
that  this  time  she  knew  she  would  be  able  to  sleep.  She  did 
not  know,  however,  what  she  might  say  in  her  sleep.  "You 
can  lock  both  doors,  mother;  and  I  couldn't  throw  myseH 
out  of  the  window,  if  I  tried.  I  couldn't  sleep,  if  I  had  any 
one  in  the  room;  I  should  feel  I  was  being  watched." 

"But  just  for  to-night " 

"I  shan't  go  to  bed,  unless  you  do  what  I  ask." 

Lady  Crawleigh  knew  well  when  it  was  useless  to  argue, 
and  Barbara  went  up  alone.  Mrs.  Savage  had  called  her; 
if  the  dream  had  not  been  so  rudely  disturbed,  she  would 
have  been  able  to  remember  the  form  of  the  call  as  she  still 
remembered  its  urgency.  But  that  hardly  mattered  now; 
she  was  only  strengthened  in  her  determination  to  go  back 
to  Knightsbridge  in  the  morning.  She  fell  asleep,  happier 
than  she  had  been  for  a  year.  Lady  Crawleigh  peeped  into 
the  room  once  or  twice  during  the  night,  but  Barbara  did 


302  LADY  LILITH 

not  stir  until  the  telephone-bell  rang  by  her  bed-side  at  half- 
past  nine.  A  strange  male  voice  enquired  for  her  and 
seemed  more  than  usually  anxious  to  be  certain  of  her 
identity. 

"We  are  Furnivall  and  Morton,  solicitors,"  said  the  voice. 
"It  is  Mr.  Morton  speaking.  Is  that  Lady  Barbara  Neave?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are — Lady  Barbara  Neave?  You  are  acquainted 
with  a  client  of  ours,  Mrs.  Savage." 

The  combination  of  Mrs.  Savage  and  a  slightly  hectoring 
solicitor  who  insisted  on  speaking  to  her  at  half-past  nine 
disconcerted  Barbara. 

"What  Mrs.  Savage  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Mrs.  Savage  of  Knightsbridge.  You  called  on  her  yes- 
terday. I  am  sorry  to  say  that  there  has  been  a  misunder- 
standing, and  our  client  is  in  a  position  of  some  difficulty. 
She  gave  me  your  name,  and,  after  thinking  the  matter  over 
very  carefully,  I  felt  that  you  were  the  person  who  could  be 
of  most  service  to  her.  Mrs.  Savage  assured  me  that  you 
would  do  anything  in  your  power  to  help  her,  so  I  need  not 
apologize  for  troubling  you  at  this  rather  unseasonable 
hour." 

The  voice  paused,  and  Barbara  found  herself  trembling. 
It  was  not  blackmail  to  tell  her  that  she  would  do  anything 
in  her  power  to  help  some  one  but  the  tone  could  be  so  con- 
fident as  to  be  menacing.  Barbara  had  never  been  brought 
into  contact  with  solicitors;  she  knew  from  books  that  it 
was  prudent  and  legitimate  to  refer  them  to  one's  own  solici- 
tors, but  it  would  argue  an  uneasy  conscience  to  be  so  sum- 
mary before  she  had  given  Mr.  Morton  time  to  explain  him- 
self. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  she  asked. 

"Some  malicious  person  has  been  writing  letters  to  the 
Home  Office,"  explained  Mr.  Morton,  "and  the  long  and  the 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  303 

short  of  it  is  that  it's  necessary  for  us  to  produce  evidence 
as  to  character.  If  you  would  be  kind  enough " 

"But  I  don't  know  her,"  Barbara  protested.  "I've  only 
met  her  twice." 

"That  does  not  matter.  One  of  the  charges  against  our 
client  is  that  she  trades  on  the  credulity  of  ignorant  people 
who  have  been  made  unbalanced  by  the  war  and  that,  when 
she  has  got  these  same  ignorant  people  into  her  grasp,  she 
extorts  money  from  them.  You  and  I  know  that  such  a 
charge  is  grotesquely  untrue.  Our  client  had  devoted  her 
whole  life  to  the  study  of  what  I  may  conveniently  call  'the 
occult';  she  has  never  advertised  or  solicited  business — her 
peculiar  powers  have  made  that  unnecessary — and  those  who 
have  consulted  her,  so  far  from  being  credulous  or  ignorant 
people,  are  drawn  to  her  by  a  common  interest  in  a  study 
which,  though  still  in  its  infancy,  is  capable  of  almost 
infinite  development."  Barbara  fancied  that  Mr.  Morton 
must  be  reading  a'oud  the  draft  of  the  defence  which  he  had 
prepared  for  Mrs.  Savage.  "We  feel  that  the  Home  Office 
will  take  a  different  view  of  the  case,  when  confronted  with 
a  few  of  the  people  whom  the  anonymous  informant  is  good 
enough  to  call  ignorant  and  credulous.  I  am  therefore  col- 
lecting a  few  statements  from  some  of  the  very  many  peo- 
ple who  consulted  our  client.  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  that 
you  will  allow  me  to  call  on  you  and  suggest  to  you  the  gen- 
eral form  in  which  these  statements  are  being  drawn." 

Barbara  was  vaguely  relieved  to  find  that  Mrs.  Savage 
was  once  more  on  the  defensive  and  that  the  solicitor  with 
the  ominous  voice  was  asking  favours  rather  than  uttering 
threats.  She  would  have  liked  to  help,  if  it  had  been  pos- 
sible ;  a  year  before  she  would  undoubtedly  have  responded ; 
but  now  she  dreaded  the  publicity  of  a  newspaper  report, 
and  there  would  be  a  scene  with  her  father  to  which  she 
felt  wholly  unequal.  The  common  sense  of  the  world,  too, 
would  only  rank  her  with  the  credulous  ignorant. 


3o4  LADY  LILITH 

"You  can  get  other  people  who  know  her  better,  surely  ?" 
Barbara  suggested. 

"I  want  to  get  every  one  I  can,"  answered  Mr.  Morton. 
"Your  name,  if  I  may  say  so,  will  carry  a  great  deal  of 
weight.  We  wish  to  show  the  Home  Office  the  kind  of  peo- 
ple who  went  to  our  client." 

Barbara  was  quite  convinced  by  now  that  she  did  not 
want  to  be  known  as  "the  kind  of  person"  who  consulted 
Mrs.  Savage,  though  in  an  hour's  time  she  would  have  been 
on  her  way  to  Knightsbridge. 

"I  think  I'd  sooner  be  left  out  of  it,"  she  said. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  afford  to  spare  you." 

"But  you  can't  make  me !" 

There  was  a  pause,  followed  by  a  warning  cough,  and 
Mr.  Morton  began  to  speak  more  slowly  and  emphatically. 

"If  the  Home  Office  authorities  are  ill-advised  enough  to 
recommend  a  prosecution,  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to 
attend.  We  want  to  avoid  that,  of  course;  we  want  to 
satisfy  the  authorities — without  any  unpleasantness — that 
they  are  under  a  misapprehension,  A  statement  from 
you " 

"But  would  it  be  published?" 

"That  we  should  have  to  decide  later.  Our  client  has  also 
been  wantonly  attacked  by  certain  papers,  and  it  is  our  busi- 
ness to  see  that  she  is  cleared  of  all  suspicion." 

'  I  shan't  say  anythmg,  if  it's  going  to  be  published  in  the 
papers,"  Barbara  rejoined  obstinately. 

Mr.  Morton  hesitated  again  and  became  even  more  im- 
pressive. 

"I'm  afraid — you'll  understand,  of  course,  that  this  is  in 
no  sense  a  threat — I'm  afraid  that  you'll  regret  it  later.  If 
we're  unable  to  settle  the  matter  out  of  hand,  if  there's  a 
prosecution " 

"But  I've  really  nothing  to  do  with  it !  You  can't  drag  me 
in!"  Barbara  cried. 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  305 

"Have  you  never  heard  of  a  subpoena?" 

A  threat,  like  any  other  challenge,  roused  Barbara  to  com- 
bat, however  ill  and  reluctant  she  might  be;  and,  when 
roused,  her  first  act  was  to  throw  aside  prudence  like  a 
cloak  that  was  fettering  her  sword-arm. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  can  make  me  come,  if  you  want  to,"  she 
said.  "If  you  and  Mrs.  Savage  think  it's  worth  while.  I've 
only  met  her  twice — yesterday  and  about  two  years  ago. 
She  hasn't  forgotten  the  first  meeting.  You  can  ask  her 
if  she  thinks  it's  worth  while." 

Barbara  hung  up  the  receiver  and  lay  back  in  bed,  breath- 
ing quickly.  Her  mother  came  in  a  moment  later  to  enquire 
how  she  was  and  found  her  with  flushed  cheeks  and  dilated 
pupils. 

"My  darling,  what's  the  matter?"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  I'm  worried !  Everything  worries  me !"  answered 
Barbara  with  a  catch  in  her  breath.  "Oh,  that  telephone 
again !" 

This  time  it  was  George  Oakleigh,  and  his  tone  of  gentle 
concern  worried  her  until  she  wanted  to  scream  and  beg  to 
be  left  alone. 

"Good-morning,  Barbara.  I  tried  to  get  through  to  you 
before,  but  your  line  was  engaged.  I  hope  you're  better 
this  morning.  Well,  I  went  to  Eric  Lane's  party  last  night 
after  leaving  you;  I've  made  him  promise  to  dine  with  me 
on  Thursday,  it's  his  only  free  evening  for  weeks.  Is  that 
any  good  to  you?  Even  if  you  don't  like  his  play,  I  think 
you'll  like  him." 

Barbara  felt  that,  if  by  pressing  a  button  she  could  com- 
pass Lane's  death,  she  would  press  it  cheerfully  and 
promptly.  Then  perhaps  she  would  escape  having  him 
thrust  down  her  throat  every  few  hours. 

"George,  it's  sweet  of  you,"  she  said,  straining  to  speak 
graciously,  "but  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  feel  up  to  it.  All 
my  nerves  seem  to  have  gone  wrong." 


3o6  LADY  LILITH 

"I'm  so  sorry;  I  thought  he  might  amuse  you.  Would 
you  like  to  leave  it  open?  Thursday.  He's  dining  with  me 
in  any  event.  If  you  ring  me  up  between  now  and  then  .  .  . 
Take  care  of  yourself,  dear  Barbara ;  you're  too  precious  to 
lose." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  die  young,"  she  laughed  nervously. 
"The  gods  don't  love  me  enough  for  that." 

As  she  put  the  telephone  away  again,  Lady  Crawleigh 
came  back  to  the  bed ;  she  had  only  troubled  to  gather  one 
thing  from  the  conversation,  and  that  was  the  rare  admis- 
sion from  Barbara's  own  lips  that  she  was  too  ill  to  accept 
an  invitation. 

"Darling,  I  thought  that  after  last  night  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  you  to  see  Dr.  Gaisford,"  she  said.  "Per- 
haps he  can  give  you  a  tonic " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  see  a  doctor,"  Barbara  interrupted. 
"My  wretched  body's  all  right.  No  doctor  in  the  world  can 
do  me  any  good." 

"But  you're  not  yourself  at  all.  And  you've  never  walked 
in  your  sleep  before.  There  must  be  something  a  little 
wrong,  when  you  begin  doing  that." 

Barbara  said  nothing,  because  she  felt  that  her  nerves 
were  tingling  and  that  she  might  break  out  with  something 
so  unnaturally  irritable  and  rude  that  Dr.  Gaisford  would 
be  summoned  without  the  chance  of  an  appeal.  It  was 
absurd  to  talk  about  sleep-walking;  it  was  not  in  sleep  that 
she  had  walked  down  the  stairs  and  through  the  door-way. 
A  trance  it  might  fairly  be  called;  but,  where  memory 
failed,  instinct  told  her  that  she  was  obeying  a  call ;  she  had 
no  doubt  that,  when  the  policeman  stopped  her,  she  was  on 
her  way  to  Mrs.  Savage;  and  she  would  there  have  heard 
something — perhaps  everything.  .  .  . 

"I  was  only  restless,"  said  Barbara  at  length,  pulling  the 
bed-clothes  about  with  an  impatient  hand. 

"You're  not  thinking  of  getting  up,  are  you?" 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  307 

Since  she  could  not  go  back  to  Knightsbridge,  Barbara 
was  undecided  what  to  do.  At  least  she  had  to  remain 
within  reach  of  the  telephone,  for  Mr.  Morton  might  reopen 
communication  at  any  moment;  and  she  had  to  remain  at 
home  to  secure  that,  if  Mrs.  Savage  made  a  personal  appeal, 
it  should  not  be  intercepted  this  time  by  Lord  Crawleigh. 
Bed  was  as  good  a  place  as  any  other.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Morton  left  her  undisturbed,  but  two  days  later  she 
heard  the  last  of  Mrs.  Savage.  At  some  period  of  her  wan- 
dering career  May  Tennigen,  sometimes  known  as  "Ma- 
dame Hilary"  or  "Mrs.  Savage,"  had  become  a  naturalized 
American;  the  Home  Office,  working  sympathetically  with 
the  War  Office,  which  suspected  her  activities,  decided  to 
dispense  with  a  prosecution  and  to  return  her  to  the  country 
of  her  adoption.  When  Barbara  read  of  the  deportation, 
she  was  first  relieved  and  then  plunged  into  despair.  Her 
last  contact  with  certainty  had  been  broken.  Lady  Craw- 
leigh came  in  to  find  her  crying  in  her  sleep ;  later  she  began 
to  talk  feverishly  and  in  the  morning  Dr.  Gaisford  was 
summoned. 

"She  was  dreadfully  overworked  in  the  hospital,"  ex- 
plained Lady  Crawleigh.  "And  I  don't  think  she's  got  over 
it  yet.  You  know  how  naughty  she  is  as  a  rule,  when  she's 
told  to  stay  in  bed ;  now  she  won't  get  up.  She  says  there's 
no  point  in  getting  up,  that  there's  nothing  to  do.  She  says 
that,  if  she's  fated  to  get  up — or  something  like  that  .  .  . 
She  says  she's  got  no  will  of  her  own,  that  we've  none  of 
us  got  wills.  That  from  Barbara!" 

The  doctor's  task  was  easy  in  one  respect,  for  Barbara 
did  whatever  she  was  told.  If  Destiny  contrived  a  man  and 
crossed  the  thread  of  his  life  with  hers  and  made  him  a 
physician  and  sent  him  with  a  stethoscope  and  a  fountain- 
pen  to  write  prescriptions,  what  was  the  use  of  protesting? 
She  could  take  the  medicine — or  leave  it  untouched;  that 
had  been  arranged  for  her  beforehand.  Everything  was 


3o8  LADY  LILITH 

arranged  beforehand,  but  she  had  lost  the  means  of  finding 
out  what  Destiny  had  in  store  for  her.  .  .  . 

"Is  she  worried  about  anything?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  Lady  Crawleigh  answered. 

Since  the  time  eighteen  months  before,  when  Barbara 
said  bluntly,  "Mother,  I'm  not  going  to  marry  Jack,"  they 
had  not  discussed  him.  When  he  was  reported  "missing," 
Barbara  never  commented  on  her  mother's  letter,  even  with 
a  phrase  of  conventional  regret ;  she  did  not  seem  to  discuss 
him  with  any  one,  she  had  rejected  her  aunt's  sympathy, 
and,  if  she  were  breaking  her  heart  for  him,  it  was  strange 
that  even  in  sleep  she  never  referred  to  him. 

When  the  doctor  left,  Lady  Crawleigh  resolved  that  Bar- 
bara must  be  coaxed  into  saying  why  she  was  so  miserable. 
But,  if  it  was  hard  to  corkscrew  anything  out  of  her  when 
she  was  obstinately  rebellious,  it  was  harder  still  when  she 
cowered  like  a  beaten  dog.  For  three  nights  she  had  lain 
moaning  "Happy  ...  I  do  want  to  be  happy.  .  .  .  Won't 
any  one  make  me  happy?"  Lady  Crawleigh  alluded  vaguely 
to  restless  nights,  and  the  doctor  prescribed  a  sedative. 

For  the  first  time  in  more  than  twelve  months  Barbara 
slept  peacefully  and  awoke  with  the  memory  of  a  delightful 
dream.  After  the  disturbance  of  her  encounter  with  Mrs. 
Savage,  her  memory  had  at  last  gone  back  to  the  day  when 
she  fainted  in  the  train.  Twice  in  the  night  a  voice  was 
heard  speaking  to  her  very  softly,  with  a  child's  confiding 
gentleness;  then  the  child  himself  appeared,  standing  over 
her  and  holding  out  both  hands  until  she  got  up  from  the 
grass  and  walked  with  him.  She  found  that  she,  too,  was 
a  child,  with  bare  arms  and  legs  and  her  hair  hanging  loose 
and  blowing  into  her  face  until  he  brushed  it  aside  and 
kissed  her.  They  walked  with  their  arms  twined  about  each 
other's  waists,  and,  when  Barbara  looked  wonderingly  at 
their  blue  ephods,  he  said  "The  Blue  Bird,"  and  she  an- 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  309 

swered,  "Of  course!  The  Blue  Bird"  and  knew  that  he 
was  come  to  bring  her  happiness. 

They  set  out  seriously,  for  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost, 
through  a  long  narrow  garden  built  like  a  cliff  road,  terrace 
under  terrace,  with  a  silver  ribbon  of  water  turning  in  a 
cascade  from  the  end  of  each  terrace  on  to  the  one  below. 
There  were  fig  trees  on  either  side,  and  he  made  her  sit 
down  in  the  shade  while  he  gathered  the  warm  soft  figs  and 
tossed  them  into  her  lap. 

"Spain."  she  said.    "We  must  go  on." 

"Aren't  you  happy  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    I  love  you." 

"And  I  love  you." 

"But  we  must  go  on,"  she  repeated. 

He  bent  forward  on  one  knee  and  kissed  her  feet. 

"You  are  tired.    Rest  here,  where  you  are  happy." 

"I  am  very  happy,  but  we  must  go  on." 

He  stood  up  and  lifted  her  in  his  arms  until  she  laid  her 
cheek  against  his  and  clasped  her  hands  round  his  neck. 

"I  am  too  heavy,"  she  protested.    "You  are  only  a  child." 

"I  cannot  let  you  hurt  your  feet  on  all  these  stones,"  he 
answered. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me." 

"I  love  you.  If  you  will  stay  here,  I  will  take  care  of 
you  always.  You  will  be  happy.  You  will  never  be  hurt. 
I  will  watch  over  you,  and  no  one  shall  come  near  you." 

She  looked  from  under  the  shade  of  the  fig-tree  on  to  the 
silver  ribbon  of  water  falling  in  cascades  from  one  terrace 
to  another. 

"No  one  is  near  us.    We  are  alone  in  the  world." 

"And  I  love  you ;  and  you  love  me." 

She  struggled  out  of  his  arms  and  darted  forward. 

"We  must  go  on." 

"When  you  are  happy?" 

"Yes.    7  have  to  go  on.    Who  are  you?" 


3 io  LADY  LILITH 

"I  cannot  tell  you.    I  have  not  lived  till  now." 

"I  never  lived  till  you  told  me  that  you  loved  me.  Kiss 
me !  Kiss  my  eyes !  I  love  you  and  I  am  happy.  .  .  .  But 
I  have  to  go  on.  You  are  a  child." 

"Like  you.    Let  me  kiss  your  hand." 

"My  eyes !  Kiss  my  eyes !  They  were  aching,  but  you 
have  made  me  happy.  .  .  ." 

Barbara  was  still  speaking  when  she  awoke.  Her  arms 
were  thrown  wide,  as  though  she  were  waiting  to  embrace 
some  one,  and  she  heard  her  own  whispered  "happy." 

The  door  creaked.  A  wedge  of  yellow  light  advanced, 
broadening,  into  the  room  and  slowly  climbed  the  opposite 
wall.  Through  half-closed  eyes  she  saw  her  mother;  and, 
though  she  shut  her  eyes,  she  could  feel  that  her  mother  was 
crossing  the  room,  standing  by  her,  watching  her.  Then  the 
door  creaked  again.  Barbara  sighed  with  relief.  In  an- 
other moment  sleep  would  have  been  banished,  but  now  she 
might  hope  to  recapture  it.  Spain  .  .  .  The  Generalife  Gar- 
den .  .  .  Sunshine  hot  on  her  face  .  .  .  Black  stains  of 
shadow  from  the  fig  trees  .  .  .  The  sweet,  creamy  figs  .  .  . 
Quivering  waves  of  heat  flung  back  and  up  from  the  burn- 
ing earth  on  to  her  bare  ankles  ...  A  child  in  blue  ephod 
kissing  her  feet  in  adoration.  .  .  . 

She  could  not  remember  his  face.  But,  if  she  did  not 
wake  herself  by  thinking  too  hard  of  him,  he  would  come 
back.  He  must  come  back.  .  .  . 

The  boat  was  hardly  big  enough  for  them  both,  but  he 
sat  at  her  feet  with  a  bare  arm  round  his  bare  legs  and  his 
other  hand  dipped  in  the  water.  She  never  knew  when  he 
got  into  the  boat  or  when  she  got  into  it  herself;  but  he 
was  speaking,  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  Blue  Grotto,  and 
this  time  she  determined  to  see  his  face. 

"The  river  is  not  wide  enough  for  oars,"  he  explained. 

"I  was  afraid  I  had  lost  you." 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  311 

"I  love  you.  I  will  take  wonderful  care  of  you.  You 
will  stay?" 

"We  must  go  on." 

The  Blue  Grotto  changed  to  a  horse-shoe  doorway, 
through  which  she  could  see  a  valley  of  swaying  corn  stud- 
ded with  poppies.  At  the  doorway  their  narrow  river 
ended,  and  a  ripple  of  water  lapped  and  washed  over  the 
granite  steps. 

"I  will  carry  you,"  he  said.  "You  must  not  wet  your 
feet." 

"I  am  too  heavy.    You  are  only  a  child." 

He  laughed,  and  she  found  herself  in  his  arms  with  her 
cheek  pressed  against  his  and  one  hand  drawing  back  the 
hair  from  her  eyes. 

"At  the  end,"  she  began,  looking  over  the  corn  and  pop- 
pies to  a  strip  of  white  road  winding  out  of  the  valley  and 
merging  in  a  white  haze  on  the  horizon. 

"Stay  with  me !    You  are  happy.    And  you  love  me." 

"I  love  you.  .   .  .  But  we  must  go  on." 

She  ran  ahead,  trailing  her  fingers  through  the  waving 
ears  of  corn,  and  looked  over  her  shoulder.  He  had  thrown 
himself  on  the  ground,  but,  when  she  faltered  back,  he 
knelt  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"Stay  with  me !    I  love  you !" 

"If  you  love  me,  kiss  me !" 

She  stood  over  him  with  her  head  thrown  back  until  he 
sprang  up  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"I  will  never  let  you  go !" 

"You  must  let  me  go.    I  have  to  go  on." 

"But  you  are  happy?" 

"Yes!    I  am  happy  .  .  .  happy  .  .  ." 

She  had  run  on  alone,  with  his  kiss  still  on  her  lips,  and 
had  reached  the  last  height  of  the  strip  of  white  road  be- 
fore she  awoke.  She  heard  her  own  whispered  "happy," 
but  she  was  frightened.  .  .  . 


3i2  LADY  LILITH 

Her  bedroom  was  full  of  sunshine,  and  Barbara  opened 
her  arms  to  welcome  it.  She  was  sitting  up,  when  her 
mother  came  in,  turning  the  big  illustrated  pages  of  "The 
Blue  Bird" ;  it  was  the  last  thing  that  she  had  read  before 
going  to  sleep  and  she  wanted  to  see  again  the  Kingdom 
of  the  Future  and.  the  "halls  of  the  Azure  Palace,  where 
the  children  wait  that  are  yet  to  be  born."  The  opalescent 
doors  and  the  blue  ephods  of  the  children  were  still  vivid  to 
her ;  when  she  fell  asleep,  she  had  been  reading  of  "the  two 
holding  each  other  by  the  hand  and  always  kissing  ...  the 
Lovers,"  who  spent  "their  day  looking  into  each  other's 
eyes,  kissing  and  bidding  each  other  farewell"  .  .  .  because 
they  could  not  be  born  into  the  world  at  the  same  time.  ; 

"Darling,  you're  looking  better,"  said  Lady  Crawleigh. 

"Yes,  I  had  a  wonderful  night,"  answered  Barbara.  "I'm 
going  to  get  up  to-day.  I'm  going  out.  I  want  to  be  in  the 
sun." 

She  laid  aside  the  book  and  began  her  breakfast. 

"Dr.  Gais ford's  coming  to  see  you  at  twelve,"  Lady  Craw- 
leigh reminded  her. 

"Oh,  we'll  telephone  and  put  him  off.  He'd  much  sooner 
be  told  that  I'd  gone  out.  But  he  can  give  me  some  more  of 
that  medicine ;  it  makes  me  sleep.  And  I'm  quite  hungry." 

She  hurried  through  breakfast  and  ran  into  her  bath- 
room, eager  to  be  by  herself,  where  she  could  piece  together 
her  dream  before  it  faded  from  her  memory.  The  voice  of 
the  child-lover  was  the  voice  that  she  had  heard  in  the  train. 
If  he  ever  kissed  her  again,  she  would  know  him,  though 
she  seemed  never  to  have  seen  his  face.  Perhaps  she  would 
never  see  him,  perhaps  Destiny  had  contrived  that  they 
should  always  be  lovers  and  should  never  meet,  perhaps  this 
was  why  she  had  felt  frightened  on  waking.  It  was  absurd, 
but  delightful.  She  wanted  to  meet  for  playmate  .  .  .  And 
it  was  a  long  time  to  wait  until  she  could  go  to  bed  and 
dream  of  him  again. 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  313 

She  ran  into  the  Park,  because  she  had  been  running  in 
the  dream;  it  was  more  natural;  she  was  a  child  again,  in 
a  mood  of  unclouded  happiness.  The  passers-by  paused  to 
stare  and  smile,  but  she  smiled  back  at  them  and  waved  her 
hand.  A  young  officer  shot  by  in  a  car,  turned  round  and 
stopped  to  ask  if  he  could  give  her  a  lift,  as  she  seemed  to 
be  in  a  hurry.  "It's  only  lightness  of  heart,"  she  explained 
with  dancing  eyes.  The  officer  looked  wonderingly  at  her 
and  drove  to  his  club,  where  he  described  the  enco.  ~>ter  and 
opined  that  Lady  Barbara  Neave  ("It  couldn't  have  been 
any  one  else")  had  apparently  gone  suddenly  mad. 

In  the  Park  she  found  O'Rane  basking  on  a  chair  in  the 
sunshine  and  crumpling  the  silky  ears  of  his  Saint  Bernard. 
She  sat  down  beside  him,  panting  for  breath  and  challeng- 
ing him  to  guess  who  she  was. 

"I  knew  before  you  spoke,"  he  answered.  "No  one  else 
in  London  wears  quite  so  many  carnations  to  the  square 
inch.  I  smelt  them  the  moment  you  came  within  range." 

"I  have  them  sent  up  three  times  a  week  from  the  Abbey. 
I'm  going  to  put  one  in  your  button-hole  as  a  prize  for 
being  so  clever." 

"Oh,  I  can  be  much  cleverer  than  that,  when  I  try,"  he 
laughed.  "Lady  Barbara,  either  the  sunshine's  gone  to 
your  head — it  always  does  with  me;  so  much  of  my  mis- 
spent life  has  been  in  the  sun,  I  feel  starved  in  England — ; 
either  that,  or  something  very  remarkable  has  happened  to 
you.  You've  got  a  different  voice,  you're  a  different  per- 
son. The  last  time " 

"Ah,  don't  talk  about  it,"  she  interrupted.  "I'm  happy 
to-day." 

"I  know  you  are !  If  I  painted  you  to-day,  there'd  be  a 
riot  of  blue " 

"Blue?    How  funny!" 

"The  blue  of  a  cloudless  sky.  That's  how  I  see  happi- 
ness. Tell  me  what's  happened?" 


3i4  LADY  LILITH 

"I  just  feel  well  and  happy.  I  had  a  wonderful  dream. 
I  was  about  four,  and  there  was  a  little  boy  with  the  most 
enchanting  voice " 

O'Rane  laughed  and  began  to  sing  under  his  breath : 

"'Long  years  ago — fourteen,  maybe, 

When  but  a  tiny  babe  of  four, 
Another  baby  played  with  me, 
My  elder  by  a  year  or  more — 

A  little  child  of  beauty  rare 
With  wondrous  eyes  and  marvellous  hair.  .  .  .   !' 

Good  heavens!  The  last  time  I  sang  that  song  was  at 
Oxford!  A  man  called  Sinclair — I'd  been  at  school  with 
him;  he  was  killed  at  Neuve  Chapelle;  he  was  Presi- 
dent .  .  .  The  old  Phoenix  Club.  Jim  was  there,  and  Jack 
Summertown,  and  George  Oakleigh,  and  Eric  Lane,  the 
new  playwright,  and  Jack  Waring.  ...  I  suppose  there's 
no  news  of  him?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Barbara  answered  soberly.  The  name 
took  away  her  lightness  of  heart  and  robbed  the  very  sun- 
shine of  its  glory. 

"And  I  made  a  bet  with  Jim,"  said  O'Rane  after  a  mo- 
ment's musing.  "Tell  me  about  your  dream,"  he  added  ab- 
ruptly. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!  It's  sacred!  Besides,  I  don't  remem- 
ber very  much  about  it  except  that  he  was  the  most  ador- 
able little  boy  in  the  world.  ...  7  was  rather  adorable,  too, 
with  my  little  bare  feet.  And  he  fell  in  love  with  me,  and  / 
fell  in  love  with  him.  I  had  been  feeling  wretchedly  ill  and 
miserable,  but  I'm  happy  now.  I  think  the  only  thing  to  do 
now  is  to  find  him  and  insist  on  marrying  him ;  we  should 
be  wonderfully  happy  together,  because  I've  never  loved 
any  one  as  I  loved  that  child.  How  does  one  start?" 

O'Rane  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"We've  no  machinery  for  romance  now.  In  the  old  days 
you'd  have  sat  on  a  throne  with  your  hair  in  two  enormous 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  315 

plaits  and  a  gold  crown  set  with  sapphires,  and  your  father 
would  have  caused  all  the  men  in  his  kingdom  to  pass  in 
front  of  you,  and  you'd  have  stepped  suddenly  forward, 
when  you  saw  your  lover,  and  you'd  have  taken  him  by  the 
hand  and  made  room  for  him  by  your  side,  and  both  of  you 
would  have  lived  happily  ever  afterwards." 

"The  sunshine's  gone  to  your  head,  too !  Why  are  we 
sitting  still  ?  I  want  to  run  about.  .  .  .  Mr.  O'Rane,  what 
would  happen  if  I  took  off  my  shoes  and  stockings  in  Hyde 
Park?" 

"You  can  do  anything,  Lady  Barbara." 

"Yes,  but  people  would  say  that  I  was  doing  it  for  effect. 
I  don't  do  things  for  effect.  I  do  things  because  I  want  to, 
because  I  can't  help  myself.  Long  before  I  believed  in 
Destiny,  I  felt  that  there  was  something  inside  me  stronger 
than  my  will.  ..." 

She  broke  off  and  began  thinking  again  of  her  dream. 
In  this  white  sunshine  it  was  easy  to  discount  it,  to  talk  of 
excited  nerves,  to  trace  the  dream  itself  to  the  book  which 
she  had  been  reading;  but,  as  she  lay  between  sleep  and 
waking,  all  had  been  too  real  to  discount.  Destiny  had  de- 
creed the  meeting,  as  Destiny  decreed  her  smallest  impulse. 

A  shadow  fell  across  her  feet.  She  started  and  looked  up 
to  find  Oakleigh  standing  before  her. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  about  again,"  he  said.  "I've  come 
to  take  Raney  away  to  lunch  with  the  Poynters.  Sonia's 
not  here  yet?'" 

"She  said  she  might  be  a  few  minutes  late,"  answered 
O'Rane.  "Lady  Barbara  and  I  have  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 
telling  each  other  how  happy  we  are."  O'Rane  sat  up  to 
catch  a  sound  too  indistinct  for  the  others.  "And  here's 
Sonia,"  he  added.  "We  must  fly,  Lady  Barbara,  or  we  shall 
be  horribly  late,  but  won't  you  walk  with  us  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  go  back,"  she  answered. 

Barbara  watched  the  two  men  walking  away  with  Sonia 


3i6  LADY  LILITH 

between  them.  O'Rane  was  stooping  to  keep  his  fingers  in- 
side the  great  Saint  Bernard's  collar.  Though  he  was  blind, 
he  was  happier  than  she  was ;  though  he  was  blind,  he  had 
heard  and  recognized  Sonia's  footstep  before  she  did. 
Some  change  of  mood  had  overtaken  her,  and  she  traced  it 
back  to  the  moment  when  he  asked  whether  she  had  re- 
ceived news  of  Jack.  .  .  . 

A  car  was  standing  at  the  door  of  her  house,  and  she 
found  Dr.  Gaisford  in  the  Hall. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  I  meant  to  tell  you  I  was  so  much 
better  that  I'd  gone  out,"  she  apologized,  rallying  under  her 
mother's  eye. 

The  doctor  noted  the  quick  dilation  of  pupil  and  restless 
change  of  expression. 

"As  I've  caught  you,  I  may  as  well  overhaul  you,"  he 
said. 

"But  I'm  all  right  now,"  Barbara  protested. 

"That's  good  hearing,"  answered  Dr.  Gaisford,  but  none 
the  less  he  persevered  in  his  examination,  unmoved  by  a 
flash  of  petulance,  which  he  did  not  fail  to  note,  and  by  a 
spasm  of  nervous,  contrite  amiability,  which  he  noted  no 
less  carefully.  At  the  end  he  was  puzzled  and  dissatisfied. 

"You  say  that  there  was  a  change  this  morning?"  he 
asked  Lady  Crawleigh  as  he  left. 

"She  was  a  different  girl.  Now  she's  as  irritable  and 
melanchody  .  .  .  Doctor,  is  this  simply  the  result  of  over- 
work, or  is  it  something  more  ?" 

It  was  as  far  as  her  mother  would  unbend  towards  sug- 
gesting that  Barbara  had  anything  on  her  mind.  The  doctor 
guessed  the  purpose  of  her  question,  but  he  felf  that  she 
was  better  qualified  to  answer  it  than  he  was. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'something  more'  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  well  ...  You  know  ..." 

"If  we  can  get  her  body  right  and  her  nerves  right,"  he 
answered,  "everything  else  will  come  right.  She's  very 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  317 

highly  strung,  she's  been  taking  a  great  deal  out  of  herself 
all  her  life ;  and  the  war  deals  such  an  all-round  blow  that, 
if  there  is  a  weak  place,  we're  all  of  us  bound  to  feel  it." 

He  piled  vagueness  on  vagueness  and  then  took  his  leave. 
Barbara  was  suffering  from  more  than  overexcited  nerves, 
but  he  could  not  yet  diagnose  her  complaint.  There  was  no 
suggestion  of  drink,  no  trace  of  drugs,  but  she  had  been 
in  his  care  for  several  weeks  and  she  refused  to  shew  any 
improvement.  With  the  best  intentions,  a  woman  in  her 
state  never  told  a  doctor  the  truth  about  herself;  and  any 
doctor  who  had  attended  Barbara  since  childhood  knew 
better  than  to  waste  his  time  in  trying  to  make  her  confide 
in  him. 

"I'll  come  in  again  on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday,"  he  prom- 
ised Lady  Crawleigh  on  the  door-step.  "Then  we  can  talk 
about  sending  her  into  the  country.  At  present  I  think 
she'd  only  mope." 

Barbara  spent  the  afternoon  at  a  concert  and  dined  at 
home  with  her  parents.  She  went  to  bed  immediately  after 
dinner,  drank  her  medicine  and  lay  with  her  pillows  heaped 
under  her  shoulders  and  the  big  illustrated  "Blue  Bird" 
open  against  her  knees.  When  she  was  too  ti-red  to  read 
any  longer,  she  turned  out  the  light  and  settled  lower  into 
the  bed  with  her  hands  clasped  under  her  head,  as  Peter 
Ibbetson  had  lain  night  after  night,  waiting  for  Mary, 
Duchess  of  Towers,  "healthily  tired  in  body,  blissfully  ex- 
pectant in  mind." 

Drowsiness  advanced  on  her  from  a  distance,  percept- 
ibly. She  dulled  her  senses  to  the  far-away  echo  of  foot- 
steps in  the  house,  to  the  shooting  glint  of  moonlight,  silver- 
grey  on  the  cream-coloured  blankets  as  her  curtain  bellied  in 
the  breeze,  to  the  scent  of  her  beloved  carnations,  stirred 
into  fragrance  as  the  curtains  moved.  Drowsiness  deep- 
ened, but  she  could  not  fall  asleep;  her  body  lay  defiantly 
in  London,  where  she  could  still  hear  a  drone  of  noises, 


3i&  LADY  LILITH 

however  much  she  whispered  that  she  was  alone  in  the 
world — and  waiting. 

Even  her  eyes  refused  to  remain  closed,  but  she  decided 
that  Destiny  must  have  forced  them  open,  for  the  curtains 
blew  apart  and  she  saw  the  boy  standing  at  the  foot  of  her 
bed.  His  face  was  in  shadow,  and  he  stood  with  his  hands 
clasped  in  front  of  him,  looking  down. 

"Ah!" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  looked  up,  but  his  face  was 
still  hidden. 

"My  dearest,  I  have  waited  for  you  so  long !  All  day !" 
she  whispered. 

"And  I  have  waited  for  you  all  my  life.    I  love  you." 

'"And  I  love  you.    You  will  stay?" 

It  was  his  turn  to  shake  his  head ;  and  he  swept  sharply 
towards  the  door.  Barbara  sprang  out  of  bed  and  caught 
him  by  the  hand. 

"You  shall  not  go !" 

"I  cannot  stay  here.    You  will  come  with  me?" 

"I  must  stay  here." 

"If  you  come  with  me,  I  will  take  care  of  you  always. 
You  will  be  happy." 

"I  must  stay  here." 

"Before,  you  would  not  stay.    Now,  you  will  not  come." 

His  hand  slipped  from  her  fingers,  and  she  saw  him  pass 
through  the  door  into  a  formless  marble  gallery.  His  blue 
ephod  shone  brilliantly  against  the  grey  walls,  then  faded 
and  lost  all  colour  until  she  could  no  longer  see  him.  The 
gallery  foreshortened  and  grew  dark  until  she  felt  suffo- 
cated. She  could  see  the  darkness  and  a  shadow  at  her 
feet  darker  still.  Something  was  holding  her  back;  if  she 
could  spring  across  the  forbidding  shadow  .  .  .  Unless  she 
sprang,  she  would  be  stifled.  Yet  to  be  stifled  was  to  win 
peace  ...  or  to  send  her  mad.  .  .  . 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  319 

When  she  awoke,  Lady  Crawleigh  was  once  more  stand- 
ing over  her. 

"Where  was  I  this  time  ?"  asked  Barbara  dully. 

"Darling,  you  must  have  had  a  nightmare.  You  were 
calling  out,  so  I  came  to  see  what  was  the  matter." 

"But  where  was  I?    What  did  I  say?" 

"You  didn't  say  anything.    You  were  just — moaning." 

"They  were  stifling  me !"  she  sobbed. 

"No,  darling,  you'd  only  got  your  face  among  the  pillows 
so  that  you  couldn't  breathe  properly.  What  were  you 
dreaming  about?" 

Barbara  looked  at  her  mother  and  summoned  all  her 
resolution  to  say  nothing.  It  was  wonderful  to  have  any 
resolution  left.  .  .  .  But  Destiny  had  decided  that  she  was 
to  say  nothing.  .  .  . 

"I  believe  I'm  going  mad !"  she  whispered. 

Lady  Crawleigh  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  the  girl  shrank 
to  the  far  side  of  the  bed.  It  came  to  this,  then,  that  she 
could  no  longer  trust  herself  to  go  to  sleep.  For  one  night 
she  had  been  in  Heaven  ...  or  in  sight  of  Heaven.  .  .  .  She 
could  not  understand  what  had  impelled  her  forward  from 
the  Garden  and  the  Valley.  Some  one,  something  was  wait- 
ing for  her — on  the  lowest  terrace,  on  the  horizon  where 
the  white  ribbon  of  road  wound  out  of  sight.  Something 
called  her  away  from  the  child  in  the  blue  ephod.  And  to- 
night Destiny  had  set  an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  to  bar 
her  path  when  she  tried  to  follow  him.  Yet  it  was  not  an 
angel  that  she  could  see  nor  a  sword  that  she  could  feel; 
it  was  an  inhibition,  an  Authority.  .  .  .  Why  not  call  it 
Destiny?  It  was  something  that  kept  her  from  the  boy 
with  the  wistfully  caressing  voice,  who  loved  her  and  prom- 
ised to  make  her  happy.  .  .  .  Something  that  frightened 
her,  something  that  was  sending  her  mad. 

'"I  always  said  you  oughtn't  to  sleep  with  all  those  pil- 
lows," sighed  Lady  Crawleigh. 


320  LADY  LILITH 

"You  can  take  them  away,  if  you  like.  Good-night, 
mother.  I  hope  I  didn't  frighten  you.  I'm  going  to  sleep 
again  now." 

She  waited  until  she  was  alone  anrf  then  sprang  out  of 
bed.  If  she  slept,  the  shadow  would  return  .  .  .  Jack's 
shadow;  she  mustered  courage  to  call  it  by  its  right  name. 
You  could  not  go  to  sleep,  if  you  walked  up  and  down,  up 
and  down  all  night.  ...  At  three  o'clock  she  stripped  a 
row  of  glass  beads  from  a  dress  and  poured  them  into  her 
shoes.  You  could  not  go  to  sleep,  if  every  step  made  you 
wince  with  pain  and  bite  your  lip  to  keep  from  crying.  .  .  . 
When  her  maid  came  in,  Barbara  was  asleep,  with  smart- 
ing eyes  and  tears  on  her  cheeks,  huddled  at  the  side  of  her 
bed.  One  foot  had  a  blister  as  big  as  a  young  pea.  .  .  . 

She  breakfasted  and  dressed  feyerishly  to  escape  from 
the  house  before  her  mother  was  up  and  before  the  doctor 
could  mouthe  his  inanities  about  "getting  the  nerves  right, 
dear  child,  and  then  everything  else  will  be  right." 

"I  don't  expect  I  shall  be  back  to  lunch,"  she  told  her 
maid. 

Soon  she  was  in  St.  James'  Park,  because  Destiny  sent 
her  there.  .  .  .  Government  cars  were  racing  down  the 
Mall;  a  procession  of  officers  poured  into  Whitehall,  and 
by  the  statue  of  James  II  she  saw  Oakleigh  and  O'Eane 
walking  arm-in-arm  towards  the  Admiralty.  George  would 
tell  her  that  she  did  not  look  quite  so  well ;  O'Rane  would 
mark  her  voice  and  paint  his  conception  of  her  with  such 
blazing  splashes  of  his  "red  for  pain"  as  seeing  eye  had 
never  beheld.  She  turned  and  ran  up  the  Duke  of  York's 
Steps ;  Destiny  had  decided  that  she  was  to  escape  these  two 
for  rnce.  .  .  . 

To  mtet  Lady  Poynter  in  Bond  Street  was  to  be  flung 
against  reality  and  made  sane. 

"My  dear  Babs!  How  wretched  you're  looking,"  she 
heard ;  and  the  shops,  the  taxis  and  the  passers-by  steadied 


PRELUDE  TO  ROMANCE  321 

to  immobility.  They  were  gloriously  solid;  they  would 
frown  on  her,  if  she  screamed  or  ran  away. 

"I'm  feeling  rather  wretched,"  she  answered  in  a  recog- 
nizable voice.  "I  had  rather  a  bad  night." 

"Your  mother  told  me  you  were  disgracefully  over- 
worked at  the  hospital,"  said  Lady  Poynter.  "Now,  what 
we's  all  got  to  do  is  to  arrange  a  little  holiday  for  you " 

Barbara  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  Yet  it  was  no  use 
shaking  your  head  when  Destiny  had  flung  Lady  Poynter 
across  your  path.  If  Destiny  had  arranged  for  her  what 
might,  for  argument's  sake,  be  called  a  holiday  .  .  . 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  she 
answered. 

"Then  let  me  make  it  up  for  you !  What  are  you  doing 
to-night  ?" 

"I  believe  mother's  got  some  people  dining." 

"Well,  see  if  you  can't  put  them  off  and  dine  with  us." 

Barbara  closed  her  eyes  until  she  felt  herself  rocking.  If 
Destiny  meant  her  to  dine  with  Lady  Poynter.  .  .  . 

"I  should  like  to,"  she  said. 

"Then  I  shall  expect  you.  At  a  quarter  past  eight.  In 
Belgrave  Square.  It's  only  quite  a  small  party.  Have  you 
met  this  new  dramatist,  Eric  Lane  ?  I've  got  him  coming." 

There  was  a  conspiracy  to  force  them  together.  George 
had  tried,  Sonia  had  tried.  What  was  the  good  of  meeting 
any  one,  if  Jack's  ghost  intervened  to  thrust  them  apart? 
Eric  Lane  .  .  .  Eric  Lane  .  .  .  When  she  died,  they  would 
find  "Eric  Lane"  on  her  heart.  A  neat  monogram :  "E.  L." 
.  .  .  Barbara  found  herself  trembling..  If  Destiny  meant 
her  to  meet  Eric  Lane  .  .  . 

"I  was  invited  to  meet  him,  but  I  couldn't  go." 

"You'll  fall  in  love  with  him,"  Lady  Poynter  prophesied. 

THE  END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


JAN  16 1996 


"ocr  1 1 2m 


A     000128057     7 


